The Spinning World
by miichan2
Summary: In the sequel to Casualties of War, Harry and Draco return to Hogwarts for their fifth year, and must try to rebuild the lives they used to lead. HarryDraco, RemusSirius, others.
1. Mercury

**The Spinning World:** Mercury

Prologue

**Author:** hans bekhart

**Rating:** PG-13 for mentions of underage sexual situations, mention of rape and character death, and creepy themes.

**Summary:** In the sequel to "Casualties of War," Harry and Draco's fifth year at Hogwarts has begun, and they must try to rebuild the lives they used to lead. In which Draco begins a transformation.  
**Notes:** Many many thanks to **lildove42** and **thedelphi**, who edited and were far, far too kind and encouraging to me. I was way too curious as to what happened after Casualties ended to let the story lie, and I hope that there will be people who are willing to come along for the ride with me.

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Draco Malfoy lets the bathroom fill with steam. He leans heavily against the reassuring plane of the door and enjoys the lines of the wood against his naked back. Strands of pale hair untuck themselves slowly from where he shoved them carelessly behind his ears. It is long now, longer than he likes to wear it, but Draco is not thinking of his hair. He is watching his toes. They clench against the tile; his left hand toys restlessly with the waistband of his pants. They are Muggle, and came with the safe house. The fabric is itchy and strange, machine-made rather than with magic. It is confusing and distracting, one more layer of himself, his life, that has been stripped away and thoughtlessly replaced with something foreign.

He takes a step forward, and another. He watches his toes flex against the cheap tile. They've ceased to look like bits of person to him, much less his own. His skin has reformed itself into a new shape of jagged puzzle pieces that slide uncomfortably over his muscles and bones. His arm is a dead thing, a white mass of scar tissue that might as well be carved of ivory for all the good it does him.

He is wet from the steam even before he steps into the shower. It clings to his skin and runs down his limbs in fat, hesitant beads. He strips his pants off almost as an afterthought, the water in the tub so hot that it feels icy on the soles of his feet.

The soap is cold on his body as well. He smoothes it over his belly in wide circles, as low smile spreading over his face. The slickness of the soap hides the jigsaw puzzle texture of his skin, and he is able to reclaim it as his own. The process is slow and painstaking, but Draco has always loved the little details and he enjoys it. It is similar to the way that Harry makes him feel, their cautious explorations of each other's skin and bodies. Draco holds each caress and kiss up for examination afterwards, comparing it with memories of fists and boots and curses. He remembers a little more each day: how the silver handle of a cane feels vastly different than an open palm. How a man's face can look the same when he is over you, on top of you, then when he watched his son play MaskMask with you in the dappled shade of his garden. How after a while, you lose sense of colour and sound and it is ludicrous to think that you ever played Quidditch or watched your mother put her makeup on or did anything but feel your body heave under the weight of things that you can't even remember the name of.

Draco names them, and holds them close. Remus told him not to be afraid of the past, that someday he would be stronger because of it. Draco doubts this, but he remembered it because it struck him as something that Pansy would have liked; Pansy had never been afraid of anything, least of all the past. Now that Remus is gone his words are gospel and Draco tries to remember all of them. Draco has searched for that piece of Remus that Professor Snape says is inside of him, but he hasn't found it yet. It is lost between silver canes and lightning bolt scars and trying to puzzle out things like refrigerators and gas stoves and how he will ever be able to return to Hogwarts.

But Draco is not thinking of Hogwarts, or lightning bolt scars, or even about his toes anymore. He shuts his eyes and lets the water wash over his face and shoulders. He wishes that Harry was here with him, and his cock shifts against his leg. He is horny in an absentminded sort of way, the way he assumes that all fifteen year old boys are, all the time. The way that Harry is.

It is strange to Draco that Harry does not seem to think about What Happened every time he touches Draco, nor does he seem to notice that Draco, in fact, does. It is exasperating and unquestionably a relief, and he has begun to think that Harry does not understand it, cannot understand it. He does not give Harry the credit that he deserves, and he is aware of this. He has always known that his view of Harry is skewed – skewed but _right_ of course, and he never understood why everyone didn't find Harry as big of an ass as he himself did – and knows that it is the same for Harry's view of him.

Draco watches water swirl around his ankles and disappear down the drain. He is clean and washed and once again not himself. He puts on his Muggle pants and the jumper he stole from Remus' bedroom and the trousers that Harry loaned to him and looks in the mirror to see the face that Voldemort left him with. But the smile that looks back is stills lightly lopsided, and his eyes are the same grey that they've been since he was four years old and tomorrow he will be boarding the Hogwarts Express with Harry bloody Potter and he'll be damned if he won't hold his head up and face it like a man.

Draco Malfoy wipes the mirror clean with the sleeve of his jumper. His hair is long now, longer than he likes to wear it. It stays tucked behind his ears when he pushes it out of the way, and he pulls a lock over his face. It reaches his mouth, fine strands of tow that are dampened and darkened by the shower. It is lighter than his mother's hair, and nearly the exact shade of his father's. His father's hair was long, and when Draco was young he used to beg to wear his hair the same way, and tie it back with a fine ribbon, the way his father would during special occasions. He combs his hair over his face with his fingers and peers through the damp strands. They are slick and unpleasant against his skin, and he reaches towards the cabinet above the toilet without looking. He searched it the first day that they arrived in the safe house, battered and bewildered and dusty. He had pulled Harry into the bathroom after him and made him  
explain every Muggle object in it and kissed him between words.

But even his father had used scissors, and Draco hadn't had to ask about those.

They make a wet, heavy sound as they slice, and he almost expects it to hurt. He leans closer to the mirror, examining his face for his father, his mother, anything but scars. Fat locks of hair fall to the sink gracelessly, and Draco cannot stop himself from grinning, choking on laughter that rises from his stomach and dissolves in the steam that still fills the bathroom. It is messy and painstaking, but Draco has always loved the small details. Hair trickles down his neck and into his jumper and he cannot feel its softness against his skin, but Draco laughs and presses a finger against the mirror and whispers, "I'll kill you as many times as I have to until you stay dead."

_Again. Make sure he knows that you mean it. _

"I'll kill you as many times as I have to until you stay dead.

_Again. Make sure he knows that you survived. _

"I'll kill you as many times as I have to until you stay dead."

_Again. Make sure he knows that you will never forget. _

"I'll kill you as many times as I have to until you stay dead."

_Again. Make sure he understands._

"I'll kill you as many times as I have to until you stay dead."

_Again. Make sure he knows that you will _make_ him understand. _

"I'll kill you as many times as I have to until you stay dead."


	2. A Sort of Homecoming

**The Spinning World:** A Sort of Homecoming

**Author:** hans bekhart

**Rating: **PG-13

**Summary:** In the sequel to Casualties of War, Harry and Draco return to Hogwarts for their fifth year, and must rebuild the lives that they used to lead. In which Harry and Draco make the journey to Hogwarts, see old friends, and have awkward conversations about dating.

**Notes:** I adore my hard working betas, lildove42, thedelphi, aralias and frogslayr, who were kind enough to come back. You guys rock! None of the names, except for Calhoun the Cacophonist, were made up by me. Daphne Greengrass and all the rest of them are canon characters of JKR's. I hate making up names.

* * *

Cigarette smoke wafted thinly through the air, disappearing too soon into the din of King's Cross.

"Give me one of those," Draco said.

"Don't you wish," Sirius replied, and thought: _Merlin, if only this was a joint._

They had seventeen minutes before the Hogwarts Express pulled out of Platform 9 3/4, and none of them had managed to step foot inside the station yet. They had claimed the table outside of the baguette takeaway near the gates of King's Cross – Sirius sat on the left, Draco in the center, Harry close on his other side – directly upon arrival and had put up a good show in pretending that they wouldn't have to go in.

The last two weeks had been a nightmare. After the Aurors had finished with the Farmhouse, Harry and Draco had been hustled into a dusty office in the Ministry of Magic until something could be done with them. Sirius had been taken into custody and then forgotten about as the great machinery of bureaucracy began its spasming reaction to the indisputable proof that Voldemort was alive and now possessed a greater power than he'd ever had before. Dumbledore had swooped to their rescue, gathering Harry and Draco up and clearing Sirius' name almost in passing. They had made a rushed dash for freedom after the close of Sirius' trial – which was over in an even shorter amount of time than it had taken to convict and imprison him, fourteen years ago, despite the protestations of a rather toad-like woman in the Wizengamot – and the press had leapt gleefully upon the scandalous presence of The Boy Who Lived and the battered figure of Lucius' Malfoy's son accompanying the handsome and newly innocent Sirius Black, as dogs on carrion. They had left the Ministry through a staircase that ended in a skip in an alleyway, and hadn't been back to the magical world since.

Dumbledore had installed them in a safe house in a Muggle neighborhood, and had cautioned them not to stray too far. Ultimately, he needn't have cautioned them at all; Harry was the only one to leave, and only then to fetch the newspaper from the newsagents on the corner. Everything was brought to them. Snape brought school things for Draco, and Mrs. Weasley arrived the next day with Harry's. A house elf was loaned to them from Hogwarts, and it came each morning to pick up after them and drop off food. Draco puzzled over the Muggle objects in the house and seemed astonishingly well-adjusted to having lost Remus, had part of his soul sucked out by an evil wizard and then killed his own father in a single day, until the day before they were to return to Hogwarts, when he emerged from his morning shower with all of his hair hacked off and no clear explanation for it.

The fine, short hairs there were left gleamed brilliantly in the morning sun. Harry, sitting beside him, reached over to touch the nape of Draco's neck. He hadn't ever expended much thought on Draco's hair, excluding the time when he and Ron had talked about how girly it looked during their second year, but he rather liked the texture of it against his palm now. Sirius had considered it an unfortunate decision; it made visible the scarring on his skull and neck, but Harry – he knew it was bizarre and would rather die than admitting it to Draco – rather liked the way that it looked. Harry did not possess the poetic instinct to be able to describe why he liked it. The best he had been able to think of was that Draco's scars reminded him of an elegant and outrageously expensive porcelain doll that had been very carefully smashed to pieces. He had seen Dudley do something similar when he was small, and after his cousin had grown bored and moved on, Harry had gone over and gravely examined the remains of the toy. He could remember sifting through the pieces of what had been a very nice toy robot, and somehow the sick expectation of what Dudley would do if he came back and discovered Harry playing with one of his toys – even a broken one – somehow, somehow it felt something like the flutter in his stomach as he stroked Draco's neck in the place where short bristles gave way to pale skin.

Draco's eyes shifted towards him, lazily slitted. His blond lashes above his grey eyes made him look ... blind, Harry thought lamely. Or translucent or something. "I am Buddha," he said. "Rub me for good luck."

"You rub Buddha's belly, not his head," Sirius said.

"You can do that too, Harry," Draco said sweetly.

Harry rolled his eyes. "How much time do we have left?"

Draco shrugged eloquently, his eyes averted from the entrance to the station. "About ten minutes," Sirius said, looking at his watch. "We should probably go inside now."

"But I want a sandwich," Draco said plaintively. His tone was nearly identical to that of a five year old child's, and Harry winced.

Sirius, however, was unmoved. "You should have thought of that sooner. You won't die of hunger before you get on the train." He stood, brushing ash off of his clothing and grabbing hold of their luggage cart. Draco and Harry followed suit, Harry close on Sirius' heels. Draco hesitated, looking out into the bustle of Pancras Street as if contemplating a daring escape. After a moment, though, he followed them into the train station.

No sooner than they stepped foot into the train station were they assaulted by the familiar. Draco lifted his head and, with uncanny instincts, sniffed out a foe. "How jolly," he exclaimed. "Look Potter, we've found your missing beaver."

Hermione, flanked on both sides by her parents, was making her way through the crowd towards them. She had a very odd expression on her face, as though she was trying to grin in welcome and not scowl at Draco. He parents wore matching mild expressions, visibly bracing themselves for a conversation with the long haired authority figure standing behind them and whatever eccentric questions might come from him. They glanced over at Draco with little more than friendly curiosity, and Harry guessed that after an outing in Diagon Alley with Mr. Weasley, they were prepared to accept any oddities as being commonplace in the wizarding world.

Hermione flung her arms around Harry and hugged him tight. "Hello Harry!" she said breathlessly. "Did you just arrive?"

He hugged her back. She smelled of flowery shampoo and girl and it was just the way she always smelled. For just a moment, it almost hurt how much he was looking forward to being back in Gryffindor tower, warm and familiar Gryffindor tower where he could play Exploding Snap with Ron and put off doing their homework together and forget about –

He broke his line of thought off abruptly, confused by it. He stepped back, obscurely embarrassed. "No, we got here a while ago," he replied. "We were sitting outside."

"Oh, we came in the other way, by the car lot on York Road. It's on the other side of the station."

"Oh," Harry said. Hermione's parents engaged in polite conversation with Sirius, looking gratified that he was chatting quite intelligently about an old Muggle music group that was reuniting and not asking about rubber ducks and spark plugs.

Draco sidled up beside Harry, smirking. "No sweet embraces for me, Granger? I'm hurt."

Hermione glared at him with undisguised loathing, but the corner of her mouth twitched. Her eyes slid over his scarred face, his shorn head and down to his right hand, but she merely pursed her lips and said nothing. Draco followed docilely enough through the Platform 9 3/4 barrier, walking quietly beside Sirius. Hermione kept up a steady chatter of what she had done over the summer, their list of schoolbooks for the year, and how excited she was to be taking her OWLS.

Harry found his walk slowing, the closer that they got to the train. Glancing back to Sirius and Draco, he saw that they were dawdling, trailing behind the Grangers and looking around apprehensively. He stopped to let them catch up. Hermione looked at him, frowning slightly, but paused as well and crossed her arms over her chest.

Draco drew up close to her, and she drew back haughtily, revulsion stamped clearly across her expression. A few feet away from them, there was a small crash as Dean Thomas, whose focus seemed to have disappeared at the sight of Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Harry Potter and Sirius Black standing peacefully in a group, tripped over his own luggage cart. He grinned in an embarrassed sort of manner at Harry and made a clumsy escape, his eyes darting to Draco, and Harry suddenly remembered how uncomfortably observant Dean could be.

"Hermione," Draco said pleasantly. Harry glanced back to him, startled. "Do be a dear and go mind your own fucking business, would you?"

Hermione glared at him. "What did you say?" she said acidly.

"Don't talk to Hermione like that," Harry said, and was ignored.

"Please. Make a noise like a hoop and roll away – "

"What right do you have to speak to me like that, I am here as Harry's friend, _certainly_ not yours – "

"It's just that you're disturbing the quality – "

It was Sirius who defused the situation. Turning to Hermione, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Your parents are waiting for you," he said. She hesitated. Draco beamed beatifically at her as she walked to her parents.

Sirius faced them seriously, his expression unhurried despite the noise and commotion all around them. He looked tired and somehow dirty, even though he had showered that morning before they left. His long hair hung limply around his face, and his smile slipped quickly off his face. "Did you talk with Snape?" he asked Draco, his voice hoarse.

Draco nodded. "He said to come and see him after the feast, and we could try out some wands for me, that were left in the castle. He says that there are a couple that might be an alright fit ... enough that I can do my homework, at least."

Harry's stomach was churning miserably. He hated to say goodbye to Sirius, and he hated even more leaving Sirius alone, who showed no signs of wanting to return to Remus' home and no inclination to stay at the safe house. He had spent his days withdrawn, as introverted as Draco was determinedly extroverted.

The train whistle blew, and Draco flinched. Harry had noticed him do that a lot during the past two weeks. His eyes flicked from side to side, confirming that Hermione was a safe distance away, saying goodbye to her parents.

"Well – " he said awkwardly.

Sirius smiled and pulled them both into a hug. "Thank you, boys," he said softly. "For all of it." He released them and stepped back. "Keep in touch, will you?"

And then he was gone, a shadow misplaced in the bright and noise.

They stood, awkwardly still, for a long moment. Draco stared at the ground and didn't speak. Hermione returned to Harry's side, and he quirked a smile at her. "So. I guess we should find a compartment, then."

Hermione looked uncomfortable. "You ... haven't talked to Ron then," she said.

"No, we haven't talked to anyone lately," Harry replied, frowning.

"No owls," Draco said solemnly. "We had a wretched slave – oh, _excuse me_, house elf, though."

Hermione's face turned pink, but she doggedly ignored Draco. "Ron and I – well – Ron and I were made prefects this year. Prefects have to go into a separate carriage ... although our letters only said we get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl and then patrol the corridors," she added hastily. "We don't have to stay there the entire time."

Harry didn't reply. His stomach felt as though someone had dropped a stone into it. Unfortunately, Draco more than made up for his silence. "_Prefects?_" he said indignantly. "You and _Weasley _are prefects? Where's my badge? Did it get lost in the post? Why didn't Professor Snape say anything?"

Hermione only gazed at him cooly. "I'm sure they found someone far more suitable."

* * *

They pushed their way onto the train, Draco in the lead. He was still grumbling about the injustice of the prefect badges, and Harry walked with his head down, embarrassed. His immediate reaction had been hot jealousy – why did _Ron_ deserve to be a prefect more than Harry? He had done lots more than _Ron_ – but when Draco voiced identical thoughts, they sounded petulant and selfish instead of reasonable.

They couldn't find an empty compartment soon enough. People were actually getting up in their seats and pressing their faces against the windows to watch them pass before leaning over to whisper with their neighbors. Harry wanted to duck his head and run, but Draco only grinned, waving to four girls in one compartment, two Slytherins and two Ravenclaws. He pulled open the door to an empty compartment with a flourish that Harry found rather misplaced.

Draco sat down and stared at Harry, as solemnly as though he hadn't just been strutting his way past their schoolmates. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and said nothing.

"Alright, Draco?" Harry asked. Draco nodded, slowly.

"Just tell me," he said, and hesitated. "That – well, you know. Tell me that everything will be alright."

Harry reached for Draco's hand. They had sat down facing each other, the gap between them only a little smaller than it had been at Remus' home. He opened his mouth to find words of reassurance – and was interrupted by the crash of the door opening.

Ginny Weasley's eyes darted over them. Draco released Harry's hand abruptly, scowling. Neville Longbottom's round face peered timidly over Ginny's shoulder.

"Hi, Harry," she said slowly. Her hand had strayed toward her wand at the sight of Draco. "Can we sit here? Everywhere else is full."

Harry nodded. "Er – of course."

They filed in hesitantly. Neville's face was a mask of mild terror. Draco sneered at him, leaning back and stretching his arms out so as to take up as much space as possible on his seat. Harry slid over next to him and elbowed him in the side. Neville shot Harry a grateful look and he and Ginny took the empty seat.

Draco reached over with his left hand and pinched Harry's forearm lightly. Harry glanced over to see Draco's face actually twitching with some sort of repressed glee, his eyes gleaming. "Moo," he said, his voice shaking with laughter. His eyes were trained on Ginny. She stared back, her chin lifted. "Moo," Draco crooned.

"How was your summer, Harry?" Neville asked. They all looked towards him.

"Er," Harry said. "Good."

"Oh," Neville said awkwardly. "That's nice."

Draco rolled his eyes. "This is stupid." He stood and paced to the compartment door. "Discuss me in my absence and get it over with. I believe I have some _admirers_ to greet." He shut the door behind him and leered at them through it before vanishing. Harry sucked in a breath, and turned to face his fellow Gryffindors.

"Harry, would you like to tell us what the hell is going on?" Ginny asked cooly. Harry flushed, a little stung.

"Ron didn't tell you about it, then?"

"I haven't heard anything," Neville said.

"Ron told me that he was living with you," – and here Neville made a sort of strangled noise – "But he didn't say anything about scars or hand holding!"

Harry could feel his face grow hotter. "Neville," he said, turning to the other boy, "What happened is that, er, at the start of summer ..." He floundered. Remus' voice, muted by the morning fog, flashed through his mind. _They were all masked._ His own angry disbelief that Draco Malfoy would ever put another person above his own well-being. "The Death Eaters killed Pansy Parkinson and tried to kill Draco for some sort of Dark spell. So Dumbledore sent me and him to live at Re – Lupin's house with, er, with him and Sirius Black. And that's where we spent the summer. And then a few weeks ago –" He hesitated again, wincing as the sound of Sirius' body tumbling carelessly against the wall echoed across his memory, that irrevocable knowledge dawning slowly across Draco's face. Words spilled from his mouth, glancing away from memory, bled nearly lifeless in bland tones told in the safety of the Hogwarts Express. As when he had related Voldemort's return to Dumbledore and Sirius so many months ago, he saw everything again pass behind his eyes. He didn't feel release, as he had then; rather he felt squeamish, embarrassed, as if he was telling a secret that wasn't his to reveal.

There was silence when he finished. Ginny stared out the window, her brow furrowed Neville looked down into his lap at Trevor, who was squirming between his hands. And Harry, feeling almost helpless against it, choked down on the final secret: that Draco Malfoy had performed the Killing Curse on his own father. That no one except for that handful of Order of the Phoenix members who had seen the body knew that Malfoy was even dead. Even the new Minister of Magic had been told that he had escaped with Voldemort, and thus Draco was headed to Hogwarts instead of Azkaban.

An unpleasant thought occurred to him. There was still another secret, that he hadn't even thought to tell: that he and Draco were ... well, whatever they were. He really needed to talk to Draco about that.

They all jumped when the compartment door slid open suddenly, revealing that familiar smirk. Harry could almost have believed that Draco had stood out of sight the entire time, waiting for them to finish, but for the lollipop that was stuck jauntily in his mouth. It had reddened his lips to a vampiric red, and Harry saw that when he flopped back down onto the seat beside Harry and grinned at him, it had stained his teeth red as well. "All better?" he asked snidely. "Don't worry Weasley, I don't want to be your friend. You don't have to play nice. Be free to chew cud or scavenge for Knuts, or whatever it is your family does in its spare time."

Ginny's face turned pink. Trevor finally escaped from Neville's hands and slipped nimbly under the seats. Harry dropped his face into his hands. It was going to be a horrible train ride.

* * *

An almost comfortable silence had settled over the compartment. The day was damp and overcast, but it was warm inside the carriage where Draco, Harry, Ginny and Neville sat. There had been dismal efforts at conversation which had faltered, after a while, mostly due to Draco's complete inability to keep his mouth shut. It had been beneficial in one instance, however: when Neville made a move to show Harry the defensive mechanism of a very ugly plant he was given during the summer break, Draco had been quick to intervene.

"Keep your wand off that thing, Longbottom," he had snarled. "That plant is too hideous to do anything good, and I don't trust you not to foul up whatever you're trying to do."

Ginny had leapt to Neville's defence, and the situation had threatened to escalate until Neville, when given a moment's thought, proved Draco right by remembering that the defensive mechanism of the _Mimbulus mimbletonia _was to shoot a foul, slimy liquid everywhere when bothered. After that, they had settled into a rather shocked silence.

The Hogwarts Express traced a ponderous path north, through marshy valleys and lonely fields. A fog hung around the train, unruffled by its passage, but even that was left behind as it wound up and over mountainsides. Draco stretched out over two seats and laid his head on Harry's lap, and only Ginny looked surprised. He sucked intently on his lollipop, staring up at the ceiling with his right hand tucked behind his head. Harry looked out the window, looked at Draco, and every once in a while traded glances with Neville, whose expression was unreadable but probably, Harry thought, not angry.

Harry had fallen asleep by the time a visitor arrived at their compartment. Two weeks of uncertainty and exhaustion had been taking their toll on him during unexpected moments: breakfast, the bath. His head had begun to loll soon after Draco made himself comfortable on Harry's lap, and it didn't take him long to drift completely away.

There was always something about traveling by train that erases one's memory. To be balanced perfectly, against all laws, inside a wooden box that ricochets and shudders between narrow tracks that have only been placed there in utter defiance of nature. Mountains have been shouted down for man's approval.

The noise of the compartment door opening failed to wake Harry. Draco had also shut his eyes, but remained alert. The littlest Weasel and Longbottom had fallen into a whispered conversation, and if Draco really felt like it, he could have listened in. With his eyes closed, however, their mutterings became meaningless, and rose and fell as the train pulsed down the tracks. For all it mattered, it could have been his mother and father whispering softly to each other so as not to wake him, while he slumbered warm and secure beside them. He had been very young the last time he allowed himself to sleep through a journey, and not sit up with his father and discuss grown-up things, but as his body swayed to the breathless rhythm of the train he felt small and loved and safe.

The slide of metal and wood brought him out of his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to see a very pretty girl with long, shiny black hair standing in the doorway. "Chang," he greeted, without lifting his head. Her mouth formed a perfect 'O' of surprise.

"M-Malfoy?" she asked.

"Have a nice summer?" he asked, his tone conversational.

"Um," she said, her face pink. "Yes, thanks. I just ... um ... came to say hi to Harry. I, um ... I'll see you later, then."

She beat a swift retreat and marched off down the corridor with her head down and hands fisted at her sides. Draco watched her go, thoughtful. "Spit it out, Weasley," he said casually, without looking at her.

"Harry asked her to the Yule Ball," she said, with the tone of one imparting a very great secret. "He's liked her for a long time."

Draco considered this carefully. He eased himself carefully out of Harry's lap, uncertainly giving his weight to his dead arm. He waited until he was looking Weasley square in the face before replying. "I've no idea why you told me that," he said flatly. "But I hope it made you feel better about yourself."

He didn't look back when he left the compartment.

He headed the opposite direction he had gone, when he had left the Gryffindors to chatter amongst themselves. He hadn't seen Crabbe and Goyle when they boarded the train, so he went right, an angry flush on his cheeks.

He was more annoyed, than anything else. Ginny Weasley had always bothered him on principle. He'd never been able to lay a finger on why, of course; it stemmed mostly from half-remembered comments that his father had made, about Arthur Weasley's little favourite. Their proliferation irritated him: so few true wizarding families nowadays, and so few children. Despite the oft-voiced opinions of his father, Draco had seen no inclination in his parents to give him siblings. But the Weasleys ... the Weasleys, who claimed to love Muggles but only looked on them like animals in a zoo, grew fruitful and multiplied. There had been times at Hogwarts when it seemed like there was a Weasley at every turn.

He spared a moment of fervent hope that Harry didn't make a habit of hanging around that ... that _Dingwall Ginny._

He had never felt so tired and awake at the same time. He moved with confident grace through the swaying corridor, peering through the window of each compartment without really heeding the stares and open mouths he got in return. Once upon a time (well, less than six months ago) he would have felt proud that he was famous, as famous as Harry Potter, that all heads turned as he passed. Now, he felt curiously empty. He couldn't even find the energy to be irritated by the attention, the way Harry was. Instead, he felt simply tired and maybe a little uncomfortable, like he was wearing robes that weren't quite tailored right.

Vincent Crabbe, Greg Goyle and Blaise Zabini were sitting in one of the last compartments. Their eyes widened as he pulled open the door and sat down without waiting for an invitation.

"What the hell happened to you?" Blaise managed. He reached an elegant hand out to touch what remained of Draco's hair.

"Can I tell you later?" Draco asked quietly. He flopped back in his seat and closed his eyes. A hand closed on his shoulder – he could tell it was Vincent's, by the sheer girth of it – and squeezed reassuringly.

"Are you alright?" Greg asked. Draco pondered the question and said nothing. _I've had the most awful, bizarre summer of my life_ didn't really seem to cover it, and _I killed my own father _would only necessitate explanations. He settled for a sort of vague mumble.

"We're playing Exploding Snap," Vincent offered. "Wanna play?"

A smile flickered over Draco's face. "You'll kick my ass," he murmured. He could hear the grin in Vincent's voice when he replied.

"I'll play with a handicap."

Dark fell as hand after hand was dealt. Their conversations flowed easy and light, Vincent and Greg striding through Marvin the Mad Muggle and jokes they'd heard over the summer. Blaise was a quiet, watchful presence, not contributing to the conversation but undeniably a part of it. And for a while, Draco was able to forget.

He didn't smile when the compartment door slid open to reveal Harry. He paused, hand extended to deal, and met Harry's eyes. Vincent and Greg leapt to their feet, scattering cards to every corner of the small space. Draco didn't move. He felt frozen, sick, as though he'd been caught doing something wrong. Shame coloured his vision, and he pushed it angrily aside. "Yes?" he said.

Harry blinked. "We're getting close to Hogwarts. I came to get you so you could put your school robes on."

Obscurely disappointed that Harry hadn't come to tell him what a stupid bint Weasley was, Draco nodded and stood. On the threshold, he paused and looked back. "This is one of the things I'll explain later." Vincent and Gregory, still standing, only gaped at him. Blaise's expression was dark.

"See you at the Feast, then," was all he said.

Draco followed Harry down the corridor back to their compartment. He didn't even feel the eyes that followed. "Why did you leave?" Harry asked. The effort of keeping his voice casual was apparent. Draco had been aware since they left the Farmhouse that everyone seemed to suspect that he was going round the twist. He was sympathetic, and wondered if he _did_ have some sort of breakdown, he'd be able to tell. Cutting all his hair off, and not allowing the mediwitch to heal his scars had felt perfectly reasonable at the time.

"I hate your friends," he replied.

Harry actually stumbled at that, and twisted his head around. "You haven't exactly given them any reason to like you."

"They've given me so many reasons to hate them, though," Draco said. Harry snorted and paused, forcing Draco to catch up with him.

"Are you alright?" he asked. His eyes were serious and Draco couldn't help but find them a little funny looking, shiny and large behind his glasses. His hand wrapped around Draco's wrist, maybe unconsciously.

"Yeah," Draco said, and winced at how false it sounded. "Anyway, what can I do about it if I'm not? It's not like I can turn the train around and run h – back to Sirius."

Harry studied him closely, and for a moment Draco was almost sure that Harry was going to lean in and kiss him, regardless of the audience on all sides. But Harry only turned away, giving his wrist one last squeeze.

They pulled on their robes in silence. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, although Draco kept swallowing words that he meant to say, and Weasley kept a close, suspicious eye on him, as though he was about to clout Harry over the head and run away with something valuable. As the train ground to a halt, voices up and down the train rose as students began the scramble off the train and to the carriages. Ginny bent over her trunk, cramming in the scroll and quill that she had taken out during the journey, and Neville got down on his hands and knees to coax Trevor out from under the seats. Draco stood loftily over them, arms crossed, but Harry showed no sign of wanting to leave without them.

Once Trevor was finally captured they left the compartment, Draco in the lead. He walked quickly, pushing his way between smaller students, who shrank back from him and Harry as if scalded. Neville and Ginny trailed in the pockets of silence that they left behind.

The night air was cold on their faces, and Draco took a deep breath and held it. He could not clearly remember the activation of the Curse that had lain dormant inside of him for months, but in the days that followed the air in his lungs had felt hot and thin. Snape had looked him over and pronounced that there hadn't been any internal damage – the Curse being carried in his veins rather than his organs – but privately Draco was convinced that something inside of him had changed.

"Where's Hagrid?" he heard Harry say behind him. He looked out over the sea of students and failed to spot the hulking giant that was, illogically, Harry's friend. Instead, Professor Grubbly-Plank was shepherding the first years towards the boats that awaited to take them to the castle. Draco couldn't keep the grin off of his face.

"He's _gone,_" he said happily. Harry, who had moved quickly in front of him as if it was Draco who was keeping him from seeing Hagrid, glared at him.

"He's not _gone_," he said crossly. "He's just ... sick or something."

"He's been eaten by the giants," Draco said smugly, letting the crowd push them down the dirt path towards where the horseless carriages waited. "He's been eaten by giants and he's gone forever and we'll never have to take care of slimy and pointless things again. We'll learn about creatures that normal people would actually want to – "

His feet stopped moving on their own, and Ginny Weasley ran straight into him, staggering them both. She moved away hastily, ending up far too close to Harry. It rankled, even as he stared with rising disgust at the creatures that stood between the carriage shafts. They were horrible, as dark as the night sky above them, with every line of bone standing out in awful clarity on their patchy hides. Even as he stood frozen, one of them turned its massive head and seemed to look directly at him, the rasp of its breath audible even over the shrieks of their schoolmates.

"What are – are those _horses_?" Harry asked. Draco sucked in a breath, looking over at him. Harry's expression was one of revulsion. Look past the blight of red hair in his vision, who was staring blankly at Harry, Draco noticed that Longbottom's eyes were also fixed upon the creatures.

"What?" Ginny demanded. "What horses?"

Draco didn't even look at her. "I know that inbreeding left you stupid, but are you blind, too?" he demanded. "They're right there, in front of the carriages! What the hell are they doing there, the carriages have always pulled themselves!"

Neville coughed. He swayed as students pushed themselves past him, unmindful of the ghastly spectres that stood placidly before the carriages, stretching their rotted wings. "They've always pulled the carriages," he said softly. "You can see them flying in the Forbidden Forest sometimes too."

Draco could feel his heart thudding painfully in his chest. An image surfaced in his mind, of the last time an animal had stared at him with empty eyes. His skin itched, and he fisted his hands at his side to keep from clawing at himself. The realisation of what those beasts were that stood waiting patiently to take them to Hogwarts hit him hard, as if someone had grabbed his guts and twisted them around cruel fingers.

"Oh," he said tonelessly. "Thestrals, then."

"What are thestrals?" Harry asked, but Draco only brushed past him. He pushed easily past a group of timid looking second years, and claimed the carriage that they had been about to board. He leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes, breathing in the scents of the musty interior, and above that, faintly, the smell of horses. The carriage leaned to one side as the Gryffindors piled in with him, Weasley complaining about his treatment of the smaller students. Draco held his breath and waited for judgement.

Instead, he felt fingers slip underneath his own, curling around his palm. Weasley fell silent. Harry said nothing, and his hand was warm under Draco's own.

* * *

They mounted the stone steps in the silence that comes to a crowd of hundreds, the hush of fabric sliding against legs and the jingle of owl cages. The torchlight flickered over their faces, and Draco was pale and his skin gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat, despite the chill of the night. Harry watched him out of the corner of his eye as they crossed to the massive wooden doors that led into the Great Hall.

Neville had explained to him, briefly, the nature of thestrals in the short ride to the castle. Draco had remained unmoving and silent, his eyes closed, until they had ground to a halt. He had jumped lightly from the carriage without pausing to speak to Harry, and his sharp features were set in a hard line. Ginny had slipped into the crowd and was gone, but Neville stayed close to Harry. Harry craned his head to try and spot Hermione and Ron, but the head of the mass of students had already moved into the Great Hall, and he supposed that as Prefects, that was where they belonged.

Harry could feel tension radiating from Draco. His movements were jerky and graceless and his eyes were hard. Harry was still groggy from his nap on the train; he had woken up only a few minutes before he had gone to retrieve Draco. Ginny had refused to tell him why Draco had left, saying only that Cho Chang had come by to say hello, as if that was relevant. He hadn't noticed Neville biting his lip while Ginny spoke, and so had been rather baffled by Draco's erratic behaviour

The press of students pushed them close together, and Harry reached out and brushed a covert touch over Draco's hip. The smile that he got in return was brittle but relieved. The grey eyes above it looked on the edge of panic.

"Here," Harry said, taking hold of Draco's arm and steering him sideways, out of the swell of the crowd. "Let's get out of here."

"I'm fine," Draco said, frowning. He cleared his throat and said it again. "I'm fine, Harry." It didn't sound any more convincing the second time, and he let Harry guide him up the marble staircase towards the Gryffindor common room. People whispered and stared as they passed, but no one attempted to stop them. They dodged through the secret passageway behind the tapestry of Calhoun the Cacophonist and found themselves in a small stone room that overlooked the Whomping Willow, which should have been below the opposite wall of the castle. Draco followed Harry into the room and nearly collapsed against the wall. He passed a hand before his eyes, his fingers trembling.

When he spoke, his voice was almost level. "It's been a while since we've been around that many people," he said softly.

Harry put an arm around Draco's shoulders. It still felt odd to touch him, to casually lean against him or fall asleep next to him, or kiss him; but the knowledge that he _could_ was intoxicating. "Alright, Draco?" he asked, pressing his other hand to Draco's chest.

"Yeah," Draco whispered. He leaned forward, resting his head lightly on Harry's collarbone. "My fingers are all tingly. I couldn't breathe down there. That was – observant, Potter. For once."

Harry smiled. "Is that supposed to be a thank you?"

"Call it what you like."

They were still for what felt like hours. Under their feet, they could hear the roar of the students, applauding Dumbledore's speech and then falling into conversation. Under Harry's hands, Draco's shivering slowed and then stopped. He relaxed into Harry, wrapping both arms around his neck. They moved closer slowly, uncertainly, until they were pressed fully against each other. It was almost the closest they had been in two weeks, since they had stolen precious minutes to be clean and Draco had told Harry the anticlimactic gillyweed story that Remus had been so keen on not telling them. It had almost seemed that when they left Remus' Farmhouse, some kind of spell had been broken between them, and they walked as though on glass. The family that they had built during those short months had vanished, like Remus' body. Draco's hair tickled against Harry's cheek and his hands roamed cautiously over Harry's back.

"Hey," Harry said suddenly. "Are we – er – dating?"

Draco went still. "Do you want to be?" he said slowly.

Harry blinked, and hesitated. The moon washed softly through the branches of the Whomping Willow and threw ever shifting darkness over the room. "Er. Do you?"

Draco's shoulders rolled beneath his hands as he shrugged. "I don't think we should tell everyone," Harry continued. "About ... you know. You and me. Everyone is being really stupid anyway."

Draco snorted. His voice was bitter when he replied. "Longbottom and that Weasley bint – "

"Stop calling her that – "

" – Well, they already know. Holding my hand was a little obvious."

"I was trying to make you feel better," Harry ground out, beating down the welt of anger that rose in his throat. "But they're ok. Neville wouldn't tell people. And Ginny is Ron's little sister ... if I ask her to, she won't tell."

Draco laughed, pulling a bit away from Harry. "She'd do anything you asked her to, I imagine. No – forget it. Never mind." He moved back into Harry's embrace, resting his forehead against Harry's. "I can't do this," he said softly, his voice raw. "I just can't. It was stupid to come back. It hurts so much I – I feel like this will break me." Darkness washed over his face and away again as the Whomping Willow heaved its body against the ground.

Harry was silent. He slid one hand down Draco's back, rubbing just above the swell of his bottom. "I'll be here for you," he said, and kissed Draco on the mouth.

They had kissed since leaving the Farmhouse, and each time they got a little better at it. Draco's mouth was warm against his own, and Harry could feel the pressure of his teeth behind slightly chapped lips. He brought his hands up to cup Draco's face, tracing the path of the scar that divided the junction of neck and the soft skin behind Draco's ear with his thumb. Draco kissed with desperation, his tongue moving with near deftness with Harry's own. He shoved Harry back against the wall without breaking the kiss, pushing his hands under Harry's robes and up his shirt to find hot skin beneath. Harry gasped, his hips jerking forward seemingly of their own volition, and his fingers found the clasp to Draco's robes and unhooked it. The material puddled softly at Draco's feet, and Harry pulled him close. Without his robes, Draco's body felt on fire, far hotter than it should have been, and his fingers were snarled in Harry's hair and Harry was flicking open the buttons of Draco's shirt and he could barely breathe.

The voices of hundreds of students beneath their feet carried them away on the moonlight. They were silent but for the rush of near-panicked air between them, panting into each other's mouths. The noise, the reminder that close by were their classmates, their friends, only isolated them. There are few lonelier feelings than standing on the outside, while near enough to touch there is life and noise and laughter.

Slowly, Harry turned Draco against the wall. Draco let out a surprised gust of laughter as his back hit the stone, and his eyes were darkened with unnameable emotions. Harry stared into those eyes, his gaze flickering over the jagged lines of Draco's scars. Draco met his stare with equal intensity, his lips slightly parted.

"You know what?" Harry said. "Everything's going to be alright, understand?" He took hold of Draco's hands and pressed them firmly against the wall, making sure that Draco understood to leave them there. He fumbled for the last two buttons of Draco's shirt, pushing it back until his shoulders stood bare, pale in the moonlight. Draco smiled when Harry's fingers ran from the short hairs on the nape of his neck down his collarbone and across his ribs, gasped when Harry's mouth followed the same path and his knees hit the ground. Draco's eyes seemed stripped bare somehow, like some sort of broken clockwork, and they watched closely as Harry fumbled with his belt, sliding his trousers and pants easily over skinny boy hips

A moment of endless pause, and Harry gathering his courage was almost palpable. The softest of kisses, just the press of lips upon the head of Draco's cock. Uncertainly and clumsily taking him deeper, the softest wash of fear that comes from not understanding those huge and adult sort of things, floating inside his belly. Because even there – and if Harry had thought about it he wouldn't have been surprised at all – even there, scars had transformed his skin into a vivid canvas.

* * *

Draco leaned against the stone wall that hid the Slytherin common room, and tried to catch his breath. His cheeks felt hot, his hands thick and awkward. An emotion somewhere between shame and elation coursed through him, and his stomach seemed to be doing circles in his belly. He had no idea how to feel. He straightened his collar again, for the hundredth time, smoothing down the front of his robes.

He heard Daphne Greengrass' voice before she came into view, leading a small army of tiny first years, who looked frankly terrified when he turned his scarred face towards them. Daphne stopped a few feet from him, and the other Slytherins crowded around her. Immediately, Draco felt panic rise within him, and he quickly tried to push it away. "I don't have the password," he said to Daphne. Vincent and Gregory loomed behind her, moving through the knot of first years like ships in the ocean. They settled on either side of Daphne and met his gaze, concern knotting their brows in nearly identical expressions.

"You missed it," Daphne hissed at him. Her face was blotched and puffy, as though she had been crying. She probably had, Draco thought. Out of all of Pansy's gang of girlfriends, Daphne had looked up to her the most. "During the feast there was a – a – a moment of silence. For Pansy. Where were you?"

Draco looked away, his face hot. "I can explain. But can we do it inside? Please?"

She looked over her shoulder at the first years that had crowded around her. Some distance behind, Draco saw Theo Nott, staring hard at him. The gold prefect's badge gleamed on the front of his robes. "Yeah," he said. "Come on, Daphne. We don't need to have a scene in front of the firsties. Especially not about this."

For a moment, Daphne looked rebellious, as if she fully intended to have it out with Draco in front of their entire House. Then she threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. He could feel her tears on the side of his neck. "I'm glad you're ok," she whispered, and released him. "_Deore deor_," she said commandingly, and the stone door to the Slytherin common room slid open. The first years filed past them through the open passage, and the hallway emptied of all but a handful of Slytherins: Vincent and Gregory, Theo, Daphne, Millicent, Blaise and Tracey. Draco's friends and Pansy's friends, who had not often been the same thing. Millicent and Blaise had never been a part of their cliques, preferring to remain solitary or in the company of students from other Houses, and Theo always seemed to stand above it all. Half of Pansy's gang was missing, most likely sitting in their Ravenclaw dorms, but Draco would only have to trust that Daphne and Tracey would pass on what he had to say.

They followed him through the common room silently, Vincent and Gregory reassuring presences on either side of him. In the fifth year boy's dorms, they took up the same positions, sitting on the bed next to him. The torchlight in the room burned bright and clear, and Draco nudged the trunk at the end of his bed with his toe. It was light, mostly empty. All of the things inside it were new, brought by Snape ... with the exception of a few things that he wasn't planning on showing anyone. Hidden underneath his potions scales and spare sets of robes were two shirts, a jumper and a plaid hat, all of astonishing age and softness. Wrapped safely inside the hat was a tightly coiled sea shell the size of Draco's fist and a piece of driftwood that had been bleached white by the sun. He hadn't dared to take any of the treasures that littered Remus' den or sitting room, but the sea shell and driftwood had been hidden in the closet where he had taken the shirts, as if somehow Remus meant for him to take them. His fingers itched to hold the driftwood, which still seemed to carry the warmth of the sun inside of it, or to be back in that small stone room with Harry, wrapped around each other. But he raised his head and looked into the eyes of each person that stood around him, waiting for him to speak.

The words rushed into his throat and choked him. It was too _big,_ too _much _to explain, to speak of. Each separate thread of rape and friendship and blood and Pansy and Harry and Remus and his father, oh, his dad was too big – and woven together they were impossibly large, impossible to even consider opening his mouth and letting all of it spill out.

Beside him, Vincent cleared his throat. "Draco," he said. They all looked towards him, and he flushed slightly, twisting to retrieve a small package from his pocket. He handed it to Draco, a wry smile on his face. "It's your birthday present ... I tried to send it to you, but the owl came back with it."

Draco held it in both hands, staring. "I ..." he said. "I was in hospital on my birthday. I think there were wards, so that no one could find me ..." The package was small and oval, and flat on the bottom. It was about the height and width of his hand, and wrapped clumsily in a sheet of _The Quibbler_. There was a tiny green bow on the top of it, flat from being in Vincent's pocket. He tore into it with his good hand hesitantly, inexplicably anxious. He found it impossible to look at Vincent when he saw what was in it, his chest tightening as though the simplicity of Vincent's birthday present had scratched an actual wound in his heart.

Floating in the center of the clear glass was a tiny, perfect jellyfish that drifted lazily along invisible currents. Its tentacles were translucent, and along its smooth body were red stripes. Draco forced himself to exhale, transfixed by its silent perfection. He tried to shape the words that he knew Vincent was expecting, a sharp tease that Vincent, Gregory and Pansy had always taken the way that it was secretly meant, as a _thank you _too difficult to speak aloud. But instead of _Make me look like a big soppy girl, why don't you,_ the words that he had been struggling to find rose with ease in his throat.

His voice was quiet and even as he spoke, and he left nothing out. Theo's eyes widened when Draco told them of his father telling him they were going to the Notts' for a dinner party. Millicent made a noise of disgust when he was sent to live with Harry Potter and Professor Lupin. They hadn't been told any of it. They had had three months to know that Pansy Parkinson had been murdered, but details had been sketchy or nonexistant. Draco watched their eyes as they absorbed what he was saying, watched something indefinable spark within as he described waking up in the Forbidden Forest, alone but for Pansy's unrecognisable body and his clothing torn to rags. His voice stretched over the months inbetween, the months where he had been safe and Remus and Sirius had been his friends and Harry Potter had become something more. He told his friends of escaping to the forests outside of Remus' home, unable to scream or speak or articulate the anger and shame that rolled through him, and of Remus finding him and holding him until the world became familiar once more. Of kissing Harry Potter. Of Remus Lupin's death. Of Voldemort. And finally, of his father. That bloody hole that had been his mouth, what Draco had done to him. He faltered and was silent. His words abandoned him, and he struggled against the weight that had been suffocating him since they left the Farmhouse, struggled to find his voice once more.

"I killed my dad. I killed him."

Draco fell silent when that final secret left his lips, his hands loose between his knees. He had bowed forward while he spoke, his elbows braced on his thighs. He waited.

Next to Millicent, Daphne let out a choked sob. None of the boys looked at one another. Silence was thick and awkward among them, a new and unwelcome guest in the fifth year Slytherin dorms. If Pansy was here, Draco thought, and then strangled the rest of the thought. He could feel Theo's gaze, hot on the back of his neck. He shifted uncomfortably, brought his dead arm up to rub that spot that felt so naked under his friend's stare.

"Do we – " Gregory began, hesitantly. Draco looked over at him, his head cocked. Gregory was blushing slightly. "Does this mean we have to be friends with Potter?"

Millicent glared at him. "Is that the only thing you care about?" she demanded hotly. "That whole story, all of it, and the first thing you think of is stupid Potter? Don't we waste enough time talking about him as it is?"

Draco smiled vaguely at her. It didn't cross his mind to be afraid of his friends, to fear that they would report him to the Ministry. He had seen and loved it when the Gryffindor house had turned on Harry year after year, when they had suspected him of opening the Chamber of Secrets, when dozens of Gryffindors had happily pinned a "POTTER STINKS" badge to their robes. It wasn't faith that made him secure that the Slytherin house would never do anything like that to him; it went deeper than that, the knowledge that Slytherin closed ranks and took care of Their Own. Nearly every witch and wizard that entered Slytherin was half-blood or more, and this, their shared heritage that everyone, no matter where they had come from, could share brought them closer together through bonds that knit tighter than friendship: they were Slytherin, against all others.

They promised not to tell about Harry without Draco having to ask, and the girls drifted off to their dormitory soon enough. Daphne and Tracey had their arms around one another, mourning, and Millicent's head was lifted high. Draco sat silently on his bed and watched them move about, in preparation of sleep. Blaise vanished for the baths, a towel over his arm.

Vincent and Greg didn't ask to come with Draco when he stood up and left the Slytherin dormitory. They knew him far too well for that. They watched him go with complacent eyes, knowing that he'd come back to them.

The common room was empty, the other students presumably unpacking their trunks, visiting with their dorm mates or getting ready for bed. But a warm fire still flickered welcomingly on the vast hearth, and the torches were still lit with familiar green light. Draco took the best chair, the one closest to the fireplace and covered with a luxurious green silk, which was usually occupied by a seventh year. The jellyfish was still in his hand, and he lifted it up to peer through it. The firelight shone through it and transformed it into sculptural beauty. Its body seemed to pulse to the rhythm of his breathing.

He could have sat there for hours, watching the jellyfish drift in its modest ocean. The fire was warm on his feet, and seemed to absorb his subconscious, the memories that had been dredged up by speaking of them aloud. He sat quietly, without moving, sifting through those memories and feelings. They seemed duller in the sanctuary of the Slytherin common room, much as they had for Harry, earlier on the train. He was surrounded by comfort and home, and could almost pretend that these were his own clothes he was wearing, that Pansy was about to pad up from the girls dorms, rubbing her eyes and telling him to quit his sulking, she'd help him think of a way to _really_ get Potter.

He looked up when the owl landed on the arm of his chair. His mother had never liked the eagle owls that his dad kept; she said they were too ostentatious, too large, too likely to peck Draco's eyes out as a child. She kept the same sort of owls that her mother had, Brown Wood Owls. They were rare, trapped in Thailand but never so showy that they would attract notice in England. The owl stared at him solemnly, her sleepy eyes magnified by the mask of black feathers around them. She held out her leg, waiting patiently for him to take the thick scroll that was wrapped around its long leg. He untied the string with trembling fingers. Part of him wanted to shout at the owl, drive it away so that he'd never have to unroll the parchment, never have to see his mother's handwriting. It seemed like ice had settled in his stomach, painful and quivering. As he grasped the parchment, the reason for its thickness became clear: something long and thin fell from its confines and clattered to the stone floor. It rolled to a stop beside his foot.

Hawthorne. Dragon heartstring core, ten and a half inches. Springy. It fit perfectly in his hand. He stared at his wand, his face rigid; he had never expected to see it ever again. His eyes burned. He set the jellyfish down beside him carefully, balancing it on the open palm of his dead hand. His left hand was clenched on his wand. It almost seemed to vibrate in his hand, pent up energy working up his arm and to his chest and spreading all over his body. He shook it, gently, and sparks shot out of the tip. He stuffed his other hand into his mouth to muffle the noise that rose unbidden from his stomach – a sob, or shocked laughter, something in between – and shut his eyes tight.

The owl hooted softly, clacking her beak in concern. He reached out with his dead hand and stroked her golden chest feathers absently. There were teeth marks in the knuckle of his first finger, but he hadn't felt a thing. He set his wand on his lap and picked up the letter that had fallen to the stone floor. His entire body had turned cold, despite the fire. His mother's neat handwriting swam gracefully across the page.

He read the letter twice, three times. His mother's owl sat patiently at his side, watching him with mournful eyes. He had started to cry halfway through the second reading, and when he turned the parchment over to see its closing for the third time, his eyes were too clouded to start again. He curled his legs up to his chest and let the tears come, flowing out of some hot place in his chest and washing clean those wounds that not even Remus' love had managed to reach. They came until the fire burned low in the hearth and the dormitory fell silent and the pad of footsteps from the girls dorms and the voice telling him to stop being melodramatic never came, and would never come again.


	3. Indefinable

**Title:** The Spinning World: Indefinable (2?)  
**Author: **Hans Bekhart  
**Rating:** R for mentions of sexual violence, mentions of character death, sexual innuendo.  
**Summary:** In the sequel to "Casualties of War," Harry and Draco's fifth year at Hogwarts has begun, and they must try to rebuild the lives they used to lead. In which Daphne Greengrass mourns, Theo Nott flirts, and the last wishes of Remus John Lupin are carried out. (Harry/Draco and others)  
**Notes:** Special thanks to lilchickadee, thedelphi and aralias for beta'ing and putting up with me. I know that I said I'd have more humor in this chapter, but it ended up being very much an establishment chapter. So, anybody who might take issue with me over Harry and Draco's discussion of pureblood philosophy, rest assured that the subject will be visited again from different viewpoints. Also, if anybody has questions or would just like to say hello and get a response to their feedback, please feel free to pop over at my Livejournal, hansbekhart.

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Loss has twisted itself into a hard bone in the pit of Daphne Greengrass' stomach. It has sat there since the start of term, heavy and calcified, and if she understood it better, it would make her angry. She wants to understand it, has tried, but it only makes her feel small, like a little baby, or maybe how Hogwarts must make the Muggle first years feel. She wants to stomp her feet and scream that she was not ready for this. Something indefinable and bright was taken away from her when she sat beside Draco and heard for the first time the way Pansy died, and its absence hurts so badly that she has become afraid that that bone will just tear her belly open with its weight. She doesn't know how to grieve. Her entire body doesn't know what to do with its weight. She has thought that it must be something a person learns how to do, like riding a broom, but then her brain doubles back on itself and cries again: I wasn't ready for this.

Orla Quirke and Tracey Davis sat down beside her silently. Daphne had retreated to the lakeside to work on her Potions essay (twelve inches on the properties of moonstone, and she could use a little emotional equilibrium), but she had put it aside some time ago to wallow in her feelings. They peeled off their shoes and socks and dipped their feet into the shallow water that lapped gently at the bank. Pansy had adopted this spot on the lake as "their spot" back in second year, above a small shelf of earth rather than the gently sloping ground that gave easily away to sand and pebbles, as most of the lake's shore was. The weather was still warm enough for them to have left their scarves in the dormitories, but the air carried a sting as it lifted their hair away from their faces. Summer was leaving them, and Daphne had realised that it was taking Pansy with it, as though she was not already gone. When autumn slipped in between essays and late night study sessions, when it made way for bitter winter, their lives would go right along with it and Pansy would stay the way that she was, the way they last saw her on the platform of 9 3/4, excited with plans for summer hols. They would have left her behind them.

The giant squid floated past them placidly, about twenty yards out. It sent a curious tentacle towards Orla's and Tracey's bare feet, which glimmered like pale fish in the water. Daphne's feet, as dark as her mother's or more, would vanish into the lake like shadows. She kept them tucked, cross-legged, beneath her robe, where they shifted restlessly against her shins.

"How is the essay?" Orla asked.

Daphne opened her mouth and forced words past the tangle of _Pansy's dead _that was caught in her throat. "Hard. Professor Snape said we had to do a good job on it, because the Draught of Peace might come up on our O.W.L.s"

"O.W.L.s already," Tracey muttered darkly. Her hands passed restlessly over the grass. Daphne's fingers reached up and toyed with her prefect's badge, pinned carefully over her heart. It made her queasy to look at it. Pansy had gotten better grades than her; Pansy had been more popular. It had seemed natural to assume that the Slytherin prefects would be Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson. Instead it was Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass, and not even Harry bloody Potter was a prefect. You-Know-Who back for real – and for months the Daily Prophet had tried to make his return sound like the hallucinations of a fame-hungry Potter, and hadn't they been embarrassed when all those Death Eaters showed up – and Pansy gone and no one had even noticed when Orla had arrived for school with smart little jewels in each ear.

Orla and Tracey's voices drifted over her and slipped away on the wind. A tentacle rose in the center of the lake and fell under the surface with a splash. Orla had lifted her feet from the water and was carefully flicking beads of water from her toes. The wind lifted Daphne's hair from the back of her neck and took with it all thoughts. She clung stubbornly to that bone of horror and confusion, forcing it down past words about homework and new earrings and things that didn't matter. Pansy Parkinson was dead and raped and gone and burned.

Daphne hung her head and let her mind come around again to where it had been trying to stray for hours: _I wasn't ready for this – I wasn't ready for this._

* * *

Unlike most of his Housemates, Draco Malfoy was having a wonderful morning. He had spent the previous night carefully Transfiguring a miniature Dingwall Gin out of a pair of Gregory's old socks. By the time he had carted his prize down to breakfast, hidden neatly in a pocket, it was not only able to walk but, more importantly, moo as well. Millicent had pushed her way to his side at the Slytherin table and hunkered down on her elbows, overflowing with advice as they carefully adjusted the tiny cow with their wands. They had achieved a bit of fire from its nostrils before Potions, and it was only when they rose from the bench that they noticed that not only had neither of them eaten any breakfast, but Draco hadn't done his Potions homework.

It didn't matter. Professor Snape looked him up and down – and gave him an extension.

It made Weasley _howl_, and really, that was something that always gave Draco's days a bump up from great to _fabulous._

And that wasn't even the best part. The best part – oh, what a day! – had been when Harry actually _defended him_ against Weasel and Granger.

If it hadn't been for that vicious tartan cat woman, the day would have been perfect. Unfortunately, she did not recognise the genius of a Transfiguration based on smell alone: something that smelled like cattle into actual cattle. The task had been to transform silkworms into sparrows, and Draco was summarily given detention for the following week.

Draco spent the rest of the day in profitable piffle. He complained to Harry about how appallingly Harry's Head of House had treated him, complained to Vincent and Greg how unsympathetic Gryffindors were, and recommended several hair straightening potions to Granger that enraged her Freckled Weasel so much that his face turned as red as his hair. He escaped into the dungeons at the end of the day without any physical violence, and as he and his dorm mates tucked themselves into bed, he realized that he had spent the entire day saying any thought that had popped into mind and had not dwelled on a single important thing. It had been a wonderful day, indeed.

The Slytherin dorms settled into a sleepy quiet as students shrugged out of robes and into pajamas, discussing this or that. Gregory wandered over to Draco's bed with his Defence Against the Dark Arts homework clutched in one fist, moaning about the vagueness of everything Professor Umbridge assigned. Blaise chuckled over a letter from his mother. Theo breezed in and out, damp from his shower, trailing the scent of shampoo after him like a banner of cleanliness.

Draco's pajamas were stiff and cool on his legs, still too new to be comfortable. He plucked unconsciously at the fabric, pointing with his other hand to Gregory's paper, advice falling meaninglessly from his lips. Theo returned to the dorm, looking up to the clock on the wall. The hour of curfew had descended upon Hogwarts, and their bodies, trained for years, responded naturally. Lights went out, conversation stilled in new darkness, and sleep came.

Draco counted to one hundred, and then did it again. Vincent was a soft snuffling presence to his left; Gregory wheezing and snoring on his right. Slowly, cautiously, he pushed his blankets away and crawled on hands and knees to the foot of his bed. His pajama bottoms rode up on his shins, and his blanket was warm against his skin. He eased out of his bed as quietly as possible, stealing around to the trunk that sat at the foot of his bed. The click of the latch betrayed him.

"What are you doing?" Theo whispered. Draco jumped and mentally cursed.

"Go to sleep, Theo," he whispered back, reaching regardless into his trunk. He had slipped back behind his curtains with his prize when he heard Theo's feet pad across the stone floor. The mattress creaked as Theo settled at the foot of it. His wand illuminated the small space, and Draco shrank back instinctively.

"What's that?" Theo asked, gesturing with his wand. "It looks like something a house elf would wear."

"Ha bloody ha," Draco whispered back. He fought the effort to clench his fingers around Remus' jumper. Even if Theo could guess what it was, it wasn't like Draco was going to jerk off on it or anything – and Sirius certainly didn't need it – and he just _wanted it._ "What do you want?"

Theo shrugged, a smile on his face. The light made his eyes look beady and tired. "I wanted to see what you were doing. I thought your little act today was impressive."

Draco flushed. He had always liked Theo; Theo made him feel stupid. He had never been Draco's the way that Vincent and Greg were, although they had known each other practically as long. Pansy had never understood it. But Theo made Draco feel small. Last year he had been puffed up and exuberant with every snip of gossip that that journalist made eager use of, every "POTTER STINKS" badge that appeared on the breast of the students around him, and then Theo would crawl into his bed when everyone else was asleep and make him feel small again. It only happened maybe three or four times, and progressed little past damp fumblings at each other's bodies, but this was a familiar enough situation that Draco drew back unconsciously.

"It worked, didn't it?"

"I don't know, I think even Vince and Greg are getting a little suspicious."

Draco snorted. "Are you here to look after Vince and Greg's welfare?"

"No," Theo replied thoughtfully. "But I thought you were."

Draco stared at his hands, irritation warring with his feelings of friendship. "Vince and Greg are fine. I'm fine."

Theo nodded solemnly, and they were silent for a long moment. Draco twisted the jumper between his fingers, absently winding a sleeve around his dead arm. He couldn't feel the softness or the warmth on his skin, but somehow the touch was pleasing nonetheless.

"Why Potter?" Theo asked suddenly.

Draco looked up, his eyes hooded. He had been asked that question before. To Daphne and Millicent, he had explained that it was all part of a glorious and evil plan. Vincent and Greg had accepted that he didn't quite know himself. "You want the truth?"

"I ask because I want you to lie to me."

Draco smiled but said nothing, his eyes cast downward. Theo held his hand up, palm facing outwards. "If I'm a prick, may I be eaten by dragons and pooped out for house elf food," he said solemnly.

The long forgotten childhood oath startled a laugh out of Draco. He looked up to see Theo's eyes dancing, and grinned. "Remember when we made Greg stay in the rose garden and convinced him that we were actually going to look for dragons to eat him?" Theo nodded. "We left him there for _hours._ And it got dark and cold but since I told him he wasn't allowed to move, he stayed right where he was, right underneath that really awful old rosebush with the gigantic thorns?"

"I remember."

Draco hesitated. "And do you remember that Vince finally took some coal and scratched a lightning bolt scar on his forehead, because Harry Potter could save anybody?"

Theo seemed to consider that carefully. "Is that why?"

"Maybe. Part of it. I guess."

Draco unwound the jumper from his hands and reached up to tug off his shirt. Theo's eyes drifted thoughtfully over his belly and chest in the brief moment that it took for Draco to pull the jumper over his head. Safely covered, Draco rested a hand, unconsciously, above his heart, only the tips of his fingers peeking out from the overlong sleeves. He raised his head to meet Theo's gaze.

Really, Theo looked more like his mother. It was only his eyes that looked like his father – and maybe the set of his jaw –

"I never thought you'd be into Gryffindors," Theo drawled. His voice was throaty, and Draco leaned closer almost without thinking.

"Why, you think I only like tall, dark – " He broke off abruptly, flushing. "I bet Hagrid could find me a dragon," he finished softly. "You prick."

Theo had the grace to look embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

Draco stared at his hands. "Go back to bed, Theo."

Theo hesitated, and leaned forward to wrap his hand around Draco's ankle, squeezing briefly before vanishing back to his own bed.

Draco pushed off his pajama bottoms before slipping beneath the covers, kicking them down to the bottom of his bed and snuggling down into his blankets in only the jumper and his pants. He stared sightlessly into the dark, wordless guilt roiling in his chest.

He shifted onto his left side and reached out, pushing aside the curtains of his bed until he could see the table that stood between his and Vincent's beds. His fingers grasped at the treasures that lay scattered at its surface until it found its prize. He dragged the jellyfish close to the edge of the table, until he could see it clearly even in the dim shadows. He watched it drift until sleep overtook him.

* * *

The knock on the classroom door was far more timid than Snape was expecting. He raised his eyebrows, the enchanted quill that he used to correct papers stilling as his attention wandered. The oak door was ominous in the silence behind it.

Draco _never_ knocked on the classroom door. The office, of course, was Snape's private domain and rarely visited by any but a handful of Slytherins, but the Potions classroom was as open a space as Snape had ever maintained in his life, and it was far from unheard of for Draco or his cronies to hang about after class to talk with their Head of House. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that it was, indeed, time for Draco to begin his detention, but the door stayed ominously shut and silent.

"Enter," he called commandingly.

Draco eased around the door, opening it only as far as necessary to squeeze through. His eyes were startlingly pale in the dim light of the Potions classroom. "Good evening, sir," he said. "I have detention with you?"

Snape nodded curtly. "I have the pleasure of your company for the next two hours, Draco. You may begin by scrubbing those cauldrons clean, without magic. I will give you further instructions when you complete that task."

Draco nodded, dropping his book bag on a nearby desk and walking over to the sink to get a brush and a bucket of soapy water. He paused over the stack of cauldrons, and Snape expected a barrage of observations and questions: _Anything this shoddy has to be first year work; let me guess, a Gryffindor started this._ But Draco merely rolled up his sleeves and knelt, setting willingly enough to the task. Snape steepled his fingers and watched his godson from the corner of his eye. The quill scratched thoughtfully over a particularly abysmal third year essay at his elbow.

"You've been avoiding me," he said softly. Draco's shoulder's hunched, but the hand holding the brush never hesitated.

"No, sir. I haven't."

"If I recall correctly, I've sent several requests through your Housemates for your presence. I have yet to see you outside of class this term."

"Is that why I'm having detention with you instead of Professor McGonagall?" Draco asked. His tone was indecipherable, edging on furious. The coarse brush scraping over the bottom of the blackened cauldron was louder than his voice.

"Yes, that's right," Snape snapped. The quill jumped and fell over onto the parchment paper. "And I would have expected you to be grateful for it."

"What makes you think I'm not?" Draco asked, twisting his head around to look at Snape. His face was a mask.

Snape's fists clenched, his fingernails digging painfully into his palms. "It would be in your best interest to remember that no matter what allowances I have made for you recently, I am _still_ your Head of House. You should not forget it."

"I never forgot it," Draco said angrily. His fingers clenched on the brush. "I didn't want to talk to you, ok? I just wanted to forget – I want to – " He trailed off, his cheeks pink. They stared at each other from a gulf deeper than the span of a classroom. Snape leaned back in his chair, taken aback.

Draco made a sudden movement, as though to pick up the cauldron he had been scrubbing with his other hand and return to work on it. His fingers, fused together, spasmed around the pewter edge of the cauldron, and it dropped from his hand with a cheerful clang, rolling on the stone. He set down his brush carefully and reached for the fallen cauldron, holding his dead arm close against his chest.

"Carry on, then," Snape said tonelessly, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen, and Draco turned his back. They worked in silence.

Draco's concentration on the cauldrons was absolute, with only a flutter of thought forming around his mind. Snape pursed his lips, reaching delicately out to skate the edge of his mental fingers around those thoughts. He had never tried to put what he saw through Legilimancy into words. It went beyond that; beyond those brief flashes of memory that were all he saw when he first learned the art. The things he observed were beyond words, or colours, or thought. They simply _were_, and came with a context far more complete than mere memory.

The boy was tired, and as he pushed irritably at his sleeves to get them higher out of his way, his wrists looked thin and fragile. He was losing weight. Snape had no eyes into the Slytherin house; although he doubted that Draco had told his friends not to talk to their Head of House. Snape, effectively, had been shut out. No fifth years had darkened his office doorway, burdened with care or O.W.L. worries, and none of the younger students knew what was going on. Likely as not, no one outside of Slytherin House knew the turmoil that was going on inside it; Salazar's children had closed ranks around Draco Malfoy. Snape had seen that loathsome toad looking for toeholds to dig herself up the barriers of Hogwarts, cozening up to older Slytherins who watched her shrewdly and gave nothing away. They presented an acidic, inscrutable front to the rest of the school.

Inside the dorms, a different order ruled. Pansy had been a popular girl, and Draco was charismatic and well liked. Uncertainty was breeding in the dungeons as each student – regardless of heritage or family allegiances – wondered if they would have to make their own choice, between family and friend, between Hogwarts and the Dark Lord.

It was little wonder that none of his Slytherins lingered any more after class or dropped by before supper; his history as a Death Eater was well known, and in previous years Snape had subtly encouraged the rumors. The sides of dark and light thought him coy and clever, a willing spy, and when pressed he had delivered scornful lectures to each on how idiotic the other side was to trust him. What would he tell his students to choose, if one of them came to him?

Draco set the last cauldron aside and looked to Snape for further instruction. Snape glanced at the clock that hung at the back of the classroom. Nearly three quarters of an hour had passed. He didn't believe that he'd ever spent this much time around Draco without the boy straining to talk to him.

"Re-label the supply jars in the wet cabinet, checking against the inventory sheet to make sure that the correct amount is inside. I believe that should keep you occupied until your detention is over."

Draco nodded wordlessly, and went to fetch the new labels and a quill. They were kept in a drawer beside the sink, and he found them unerringly. He began his task as methodically as Snape himself would, which was hardly surprising. He removed the heavy glass jars from the low cabinet a group at a time, wiping the dust off of them with a cloth before setting them on the scale and marking down the amount. Once verified, the jar was moved to another area of the counter to await its label. He was quick and efficient and obscurely Snape felt proud.

Draco marked the labels with careful loops, his gray eyes flickering back and forth between the label and the inventory sheet. Under his quill the words rolled out gracefully: Acromantula Venom, Armadillo Bile, Bubotuber Pus, Bundimun Secretion. The jars clinked thoughtfully together as Draco set them back in their proper places, returning with a new load, noises as orderly as the ticking of the clock. Time passed, and tension eased almost palpably. Snape let out a breath that he hadn't been aware of holding and looked back to his essays, the quill making short work of them. It took him a long time to notice the silence that had fallen over Draco's area of work.

Snape looked up when he realized it had been some time since he last heard the potion jars clink or the scale groan under their weight. Draco was standing, very still, a jar balanced on the palm of his bad hand and steadied with the other, his expression almost perplexed. His brows were knitted in an almost curious way, as if they were unsure of how to convey what was going on behind them. His thumb stroked a slow pattern over the cramped lettering of Snape's own hand: Gillyweed.

"Draco?" Snape said. Draco's head snapped up, his eyes wide and startled.

"Yes, sir?"

"Is there a problem?"

Draco shook his head, wordlessly, and set the jar of gillyweed down on the scale, turning his face away from Snape, who felt quite baffled.

Not so long ago, he had known all of his Slytherins, known their birthdays and Potions abilities and sometimes even the convoluted little jokes that had been born in the groups. He had known quite a bit about Draco and his friends, seen some of them get taller and more insufferable every time he socialized with the Malfoys or the Notts or others. They had tumbled into Hogwarts like a pack of self-entitled puppies, Draco lording Snape's favour over the lot of them.

It had been Dumbledore who told him of the relationship that had … developed between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. He had felt stung, at the time, that Draco hadn't told Snape himself, but that had been during those dim, hurried days between a dusty corridor in the Ministry and the dingy safe house where they had ended their summer. Draco and Black had been as lifeless as Inferi, and would go where they were pointed but do little else. No, Snape hadn't been bothered by that until Draco began to talk again, and laugh again, but not with him. Only with Potter. He would vanish when Snape came to visit that ugly Muggle safe house, and if cornered, had talked to the floor instead of to his own godfather.

Never mind, Snape had thought. He had plenty of time to win back Draco's trust at Hogwarts.

He had never thought that Draco would avoid him at school.

Snape glanced up at the clock. A fair amount of time had passed since Draco had began his second task, and it was nearly ten o'clock already. "That's enough," he said clearly. "Finish the jars that you have out, and then you may go."

"Thank you, sir," Draco said distantly. His hands were steady as he recorded the final measurements on the parchment and returned the jars, stooping, back to their places. He closed and locked the cabinet fastidiously, leaving the parchment paper and inventory sheet on the counter above it. His face opened as he walked back to where he had laid his book bag over a desk, relaxing in preparation of leaving the Potions classroom.

Snape cleared his throat. Draco paused, his hand on his book bag. "Before you leave," he said, "there was something I wanted to discuss with you."

Draco pulled his book bag over his shoulder and walked slowly around Snape's desk, where the professor waited. He stared at a point somewhere above Snape's shoulder and didn't say anything, his expression obstinate.

"Have you been to see Madam Pomfrey since you arrived at Hogwarts?" Snape asked.

"No, sir."

"Any discomfort or tightness while the scarring healed?"

Draco looked uncomfortable. "Not really. On my back, a little – below my shoulder blades. But it's more itchy than a real bother."

"Mm," Snape said, noncommittally. "Give me your hand."

Draco hesitated, and a flash of irritation sparked in Snape's chest. He tried to push it away, as he had – mostly – buried the anger and confusion of earlier. It stayed where it was, gnawing like a splinter buried beneath the skin, even when Draco finally extended his right hand.

Snape ran his wand over the inside of Draco's wrist and down to his fingertips, repeating the movement on the back of his hand as well. The thumb was still separate, but the other fingers had fused together, as though they had healed that way, even though Snape knew that Lupin had taken pains to see that each finger was bandaged separately. The skin was pale, with only the faintest hint of texture, as though the burn had been some wound incurred in childhood and hadn't been an angry, oozing scab bare weeks ago. The burn had changed, and the flesh below it had died, sometime between the time that the Brond Atol curse had been pulled out of Draco's body and when Snape was finally able to examine him, hours later. There was no sensitivity or movement in the hand any longer, but the dropped cauldron was the first time that Snape had seen Draco try and use his right hand since the injury was incurred.

"Open your mouth," Snape said. He stood, wand ready. Draco's eyes widened.

"No," he said forcefully. "Why should I?"

"I have your best interests at heart, Draco," Snape snarled. "I would like to check for spell damage, so _open your mouth_."

"I'm not comfortable with that, Professor," Draco said, his words formal and his tone harsh. Snape's eyes narrowed. He took a deep breath. He was very conscious of the tremor that was visible in Draco's left hand.

"Why don't you trust me anymore?" he asked quietly. Draco's chin jerked away, and he stared defiantly into space, his face pink. "Why are you so angry with me?"

Draco's eyes moved slowly to his own, and when he spoke it was a low hiss. "You should _know_ why."

The wall in Draco's mind came down with breathtaking speed, as though the boy had consciously dropped his defences to let Snape in. Snape bit back a gasp as images, emotions flooded through his brain, erasing all sound but the silence that one can only find at the beach, the bitter taste of salt spray in his mouth, the warmth of a body beside him and bright love for them –

-- And a voice. _"Professor Snape will save you."_

Snape's breath caught in his throat. He was blinded, lost in the fog behind Draco's eyes and the _blame_ and _anger_ that laced through his senses like poison. He wrenched his mind away from Draco's, severing the connection that had bound him to Draco's thoughts. He stared at his hands, at the wood of the desk beneath them, the stone beneath the desk, his anchors to unsteady reality.

Draco's voice echoed dimly: "Can I go now, sir?"

Snape nodded but did not speak, and did not look up when the heavy classroom door closed.

* * *

The hall outside the Potions classroom was cold and empty when Draco stepped into it, and his footsteps echoed on the stone. He sighed softly and tugged his book bag closer to his side. He had risen early that day and slept little the night before, and he was tired. His anger at Snape melted away, nearly forgotten in the way it seemed he forgot everything these days.

School had been transformed into some other reality for Draco. It seemed impossible that barely four months ago he had stood in the same halls he passed through that very day, saw teachers who were the same as they were four months ago, sat on the same bench at the same table and waited for breakfast to appear, thinking of eggs and jam and classes just as he had four months ago. It wasn't even ridiculous that Draco still tried to talk to his friends about schoolwork or Quidditch; it was grotesque. He had begun to think that he had given up his right to be just another student, and his connections to people and places around him felt more distant and surreal by each passing day. And although he had passed on his secrets to a chosen handful, they still weighed upon him, itching as though it were his past that was carved upon his skin, rather than the byproduct of a spell. And in the center of all of it, he had begun to doubt himself. Memories of his father scooping him up like a Quaffle and throwing him over his shoulder, screaming with laughter; of his father waiting patiently by his bedside for Draco to go to sleep, his dry hand covering his son's brow; of embraces between his mother and father and the years they had shared and grown and been a _family_ …

Maybe.

He had been wrong.

Wrong. That no matter what his memories said, that his father had crouched over him and looked him in the eye while men in black robes had taken him one after another, that it was _Draco_ who was wrong. The doubt grew inside his chest like an infection, a pressure that ached for someone to cut it open and wash him clean. He knew that Harry would do it, would tell him that everything was alright, that he wasn't wrong, the way Harry had done too often in the past three weeks. He felt revulsion rise in his stomach at the very idea. Their relationship – or something, Draco added automatically – had become simply one more secret to add to the weight. To give a voice to those thoughts that lay beneath those secrets – and by speaking of them, he might as well say they were true – to give a voice to it was an impossibility, as out of reach as asking for his father's forgiveness.

A small noise made him look up. He paused, and after a moment there was a swirl of movement where there had only been empty air before. Black hair, glasses and green eyes that peered cautiously at him. Draco raised his eyebrows. "Well," he said, "that explains Hogsmeade's Mysterious Floating Head of third year."

"Hey," Harry said.

"Aren't you out past curfew?" Draco asked.

Harry shrugged, unruffled by his snide tone. "I haven't seen you all week. You're always surrounded by your friends."

"So are you," Draco replied. "And I hate your friends more than you hate mine."

"Yeah," Harry said thoughtfully, "you keep saying that." Draco pulled him close and kissed him. Harry's mouth was firm against his own, and he smelled faintly of chocolate and smoke. He kissed Draco back – but only for a moment before pulling away, glancing around the empty corridor as though anyone might discover them. It was late; the only ones likely to be out were prefects, prowling the halls for errant students. But when Harry turned away, leading Draco to the tapestry of Rathbone the Resplendent and the hidden stairwell behind it, Draco followed without a word.

Anger warred with confusion in his stomach, tempered by his lifelong need for approval. He had no idea of what Harry had been telling his friends, why they thought he was still hanging around with the Slytherin. Apparently it had never even occurred to Granger's vaunted mind that there could be anything sexual involved. It rankled at him that despite their famous courage and loyalty, good little Gryffindors apparently didn't tell each other when they were snogging Slytherins.

Draco stopped in midstride. Harry checked himself after another pace or two, and turned to look at Draco. The wall of the narrow stairwell that they were climbing was dotted with thin windows to the outside – centuries ago, before the veils of secrecy came down upon the wizarding world, they had helped wizards defend Hogwarts from the occasional Muggle hoard, allowing them to stick their wand arms out to aim hexes without getting shot by the Muggles' silly sharpened sticks. The light from the wand slits flickered across Harry's face as he moved to Draco's side. "Are you alright?" he asked, frowning.

Draco frowned back, unconsciously imitating Harry's expression. That had been happening often lately, although he was not always aware of it; there seemed sometimes to be a lapse in his knowledge of social situations, and he found himself more and more often taking clues from those around him, without any trace of understanding why they were acting the way that they were. His own immediate responses felt unnatural and inappropriate, and he quashed them without thinking.

He nodded and took Harry's hand. It seemed like an accepted thing to do, and when Harry's fingers closed around his own he felt relieved that he had guessed correctly.

"Did Snape … do something to you?" Harry asked awkwardly.

Draco laughed, a little too loudly. "Something like molest me, you mean? Don't be absurd."

Harry glared at him for a minute, and then smiled. He was quite dashing when he smiled, some foolish corner of Draco's mind noted. "Was he just … pompous, rude and overbearing, then? His normal self?"

"That sounds about right," Draco replied, leaning against the wall and folding his arms. His shoulder covered part of the wand slit, and after a moment, Harry's shoulder covered the other half.

"I'd never thought I'd say this," he said, "But don't let Snape get to you. He's probably just as – er – upset by everything that's happened as you are."

"Are you actually trying to empathise with Professor Snape?" Draco asked, amused.

Harry made a retching noise. "I guess if I can learn to like _you_ of all people, I can – ugh – at least try and hate Snape maybe just a little bit less."

"I'm sure he'll be thrilled." Draco's head dropped onto Harry's shoulder, and Harry's arm snaked around his waist.

"Doesn't mean I'll put any effort into his class."

"You should," Draco mumbled. "If you're not crossing wands with him, he's a good teacher."

Harry snorted. "He might be if he didn't hate kids. He probably only teaches because he can't do anything else."

"He likes making potions."

"He _likes_ bullying children," Harry said firmly. Draco shrugged and closed his eyes. Far below them, there was an echo of footsteps. If anyone came near where they stood, they would have plenty of warning.

"That's probably part of the appeal of teaching," he said absently. Harry laughed and said something meaningless, and Draco answered with something similar. He was aware of speaking, of returning Harry's banter, but the words drifted away from him and became faint. He could feel the blood beating in the tips of his fingers – on one hand, at any rate. The confession, those terrible words, hovered in his mouth like the latch to a door.

Harry shifted against him, and Draco looked up to find baffled green eyes staring at him, obviously awaiting some sort of response. He straightened quickly, standing up and away from Harry. Harry's arm around him tensed but didn't move away. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" Draco asked.

Harry blinked rapidly, his brows knit thoughtfully together. "I asked you something serious," he said. "Weren't you listening?"

Draco looked at his feet and didn't answer. "Are you alright?" Harry asked. "You've been weird lately."

"I'm alright," Draco said. He lifted his face to look Harry in the eye, his jaw mulishly set. "What did you ask me?"

Still Harry hesitated. When Draco opened his mouth, scowling, Harry waved a hand at him. "I'm just embarrassed," he said, "I'm trying to think of how to say it. I – didn't know about wizarding stuff until I was eleven. I'd never heard of Hogwarts until I got my letter. I know – stop smirking. But I was thinking the other day, how everything you say sounds sort of weird to me, like you're being translated from some sort of foreign language or something, and then I sort of realized that you _were_ – because I hear you like … like a Muggle would hear you. I don't know anything about our world except what I'm told – "

Draco sniffed.

" – so I guess I'm asking, well – don't laugh at me if I want to ask you something that sounds really stupid to you, ok?"

Draco shut his mouth. His eyes were bright and mischievous. "Why don't you ask Weasel?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I dunno. Well – some of the stuff I want to know … well, Ron would ask _why_ I want to know."

Draco nodded slowly, a smug smile on his lips. "It's fine, Harry. I don't mind if you admit that I'm simply more clever than Weasel is."

"Arse," Harry muttered.

"I notice you're not denying it."

"Fine, I'm denying it!" Harry said, grinning.

Draco raked a hand over his scalp, a gesture that had looked far more impressive when his hair was long. "Even though you are clearly lying, the Grand Draco Malfoy is ready to hear your stupid Muggle questions. Ask away, peasant."

Harry's grin slid away slowly from his face, and his eyes shifted away from Draco. "Draco," he said seriously, "do wizards hate gay people?"

Draco frowned and looked at Harry. "Why would wizards hate gay people? What's wrong with being gay?"

"Well, nothing," Harry said hastily, his face red. "Just – my cousin Dudley always says stupid things – "

"What does your cousin have against being happy?" Draco said blankly. "Do Muggles not like to be happy?"

Harry stared at him, his eyes wide. His mouth twitched. "This is sort of what I meant about the different language thing. That word … that's a word that Muggles use for … er … homosexual. You know what that is, right?"

Draco scoffed. "Obviously, yes."

Harry's blush deepened. "Sorry."

Draco laughed. "What a ridiculous idea. Do Muggles do that? Merlin, it would be like … hating Blaise because he's black." Harry stared at the ground, vaguely embarrassed. Draco paused. "Muggles do that too, then?"

His eyes flicked over Harry's face, thinking. He leaned back against the wall, making himself comfortable. "No," he said finally. "Wizards do not hate … gays, if you like that word. It's different for Muggles?"

Harry nodded. He stared at his shoes, and so Draco looked down at them as well. They looked at Harry's shoes and not at each other. "There was … this boy," Harry said uncomfortably. "At my school, when I was young. We were only nine or ten, but all the other boys picked on him – they picked on me, for never having clothes that fit right, or for having glasses – but they picked on him because he didn't like sports much, and talked weird. They called him all kinds of names because they thought he was a poof – I mean, who knows if he was, you know? We were just little kids."

Draco nudged Harry's foot with his own, tapping the top of it. The trainers on his feet had been Harry's own, scuffed with long years of wear, given unwillingly to Draco when he first arrived at the Farmhouse. When Snape had brought Draco's school things to their safe house, he had forgotten shoes and so Draco had continued wearing these without thinking much of it. Harry laughed, a small huff of air, and lifted his own foot to ward off the attack.

"I hear it's because of religion," Draco said thoughtfully. Harry's foot stilled, and he glanced up. "That's what my – my father used to say, anyway. That Muggles had a lot of problems because they believed in some sort of … spiritual manifesto – that this group of people had more right to one land than that group, that one group were winners – no – sinners just because they had been born a certain colour or loved certain people. It didn't make any sense to me, really."

"Doesn't make sense to me either, and I grew up with Muggles," Harry said. "But the wizarding world has problems too. A lot of people hate Muggles just because they were born without magic… and isn't that the same thing? You can't help being a Muggle any more than people can help being – gay."

Draco's face hardened. "That isn't the same thing at all," he said sharply. "Someone being gay, or black, or left-handed isn't a threat to your survival. No matter how many homosexuals there are in the world, they're never going to rise up and try and kill everyone who isn't homosexual. But Muggles _have_ done that to us, and if they ever found out about our world they'd try and do it again." He moved to stand in front of Harry, his hands spread wide. "Why do you think we don't want the Mudbloods to come to Hogwarts? Every Muggle that knows about us is one more Muggle that could destroy everything!"

Harry was quiet for a moment, his eyebrows raised. "Wow," he said, a little awed. "I knew that you … felt strongly about stuff like that, but I thought it was all … blind hatred or something."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Don't be an asshole, Potter," he said belligerently. "And it's true. I could tell you … the names of every Malfoy patriarch, for sixteen generations. And I could tell you all about Pleione Black's exploits for William the Conqueror. And all that history could be destroyed in just a single day, if some stupid Mudblood thinks that our worlds could use a little more integration, or social changes or something."

Harry stared at the ground, silent. Draco folded his arms and looked over Harry's shoulder, trying to see the moon. It was far past curfew, but he felt more alert than he had in weeks. It was almost a relief to be able to argue, to debate about something that he had believed in since childhood, and his mother's voice echoed through his memory, filling it with far away stories about their ancestors.

"I never thought of it that way," Harry said at last. "But stop saying Mudblood. You sound like an idiot."

Draco laughed. "I'm just trying to ensure that we're on equal footing, intellectually speaking."

Harry grabbed him around the waist and pulled him close, their bodies pressed together from knees to chest, their feet tangling together. They kissed messily, nearly laughing into each other's mouths. Draco's fingers snarled into Harry's hair. Harry's eyes slid closed.

After a long while, Draco moved away and rested his forehead against Harry's. Harry could feel Draco's breath on his face. His glasses had been pushed up over his forehead some time ago, and he could feel one earpiece threatening to slide off his head altogether. One of Draco's hands was curled on his collarbone; the other steadied himself against the wall.

"So," Draco said, "That's why you haven't told Granger and Weasel, is it?"

Harry winced, his eyes still closed. He reached up a hand and steadied his glasses. "Sort of," he said. "It's just … scary, you know? I mean, six months ago I'd only liked one girl and never kissed anybody. I'd never even thought about … you know. Being with a boy. And I don't even know if I _am_ gay, Draco … it's all just confusing and huge."

"That's just because your pathetic little mind can't handle anything bigger than Quidditch," Draco said, but it sounded feeble even to his ears. Harry smiled.

"It took me a while to get used to Remus and Sirius. Not because I thought it was wrong, or gross, just … Draco, you can't even imagine where I grew up. I bet you've never even _seen_ perfectly mowed lawns or perfectly trimmed hydrangea bushes – people like Remus and Sirius or me and you are just a whole other world than that. So it's scary enough even by itself to say that I – I like boys, and maybe girls too and that's just as confusing – "

"Can't it just be both?" Draco asked, agitated. "Do you have to give names to everything?"

Harry captured the hand that had curled into a fist on his collarbone, reaching with his other hand to cup Draco's cheek. His chest felt tight, and he was dizzy. The moment hung suspended between them, frighteningly monumental in the way everything seems monumental when one is a teenager and in love – or something. It seemed almost as though he and Draco were the only ones in the castle, in the world, and that was all that mattered and they were the only ones that mattered –

Harry drew in a deep breath and tried to calm himself. His thoughts ran away from him like wild, melodramatic horses, and suggested that maybe everything would be alright if he and Draco just – ran away together, went back to the Farmhouse or –

Harry took another deep breath and opened his eyes.

"I'll tell Ron and Hermione," he said.

Draco's mouth twitched. His expression was doubtful. "Right."

"I promise."

Draco said nothing, but leaned forward and kissed him again.

* * *

He could hear the noise of the Gryffindor Tower from two flights below it, as he made his way up the winding stairs to his bed. He kept a hand on his wand, safe inside the pocket of his jeans. The cool air of the castle had wiped the flush from his cheeks and by the time he reached the Fat Lady he supposed he looked innocent enough that she merely raised an eyebrow at him. The common room was full of people, their faces pink from the fire that burned cheerfully in the hearth. A brief hail went up in the corner that Seamus, Dean, Ginny and some others were sitting, and Harry waved blankly at them and headed to where Ron and Hermione were.

"Hey, Harry," Ron said, glancing over at him as Harry threw himself into the empty armchair beside them. Hermione was seated on the floor beside the low table, textbooks spread out before her. She smiled at him vaguely but otherwise did not detach herself from her studies. "Where've you been?"

Harry forced himself to tell the truth. "I … went to find Draco after his detention."

Hermione raised her head and stared at him. Ron's eyes narrowed. "Why?" he asked, appalled. "Why do you keep talking to him?"

Harry shrugged, uncomfortably. A single sentence formed itself into a loop in his brain, singing over and over: _I'm snogging Draco Malfoy. I'm snogging Draco Malfoy. I'm snogging Draco Malfoy and I hope you'll still want to be friends with me._ "I was worried about him," he answered.

Hermione's eyebrows disappeared into her hair. "Harry," she said seriously, "Ron and I – we've been talking about this – and we understand if maybe you feel guilty about Malfoy. With no one to talk to during the summer, you two probably became close, am I right?"

Harry frowned and straightened up in his seat. Ron's eyes were an earnest blue and fairly shone in the firelight. "I had Sirius to talk to, it wasn't really like that …"

"But it's not the same, Harry," Hermione said earnestly. "You didn't have anyone your own age. Sirius is...well."

"Look, you two just don't know Draco that well. Maybe if you gave him a chance, you might …" Harry trailed off, watching Ron and Hermione's expressions darken.

Ron made a horrified noise. "I'd rather be eaten by a hippogriff than get to know Draco Malfoy any better than I already do."

Hermione sighed and put down her quill, pushing her books aside. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His pants still felt slightly itchy despite Draco's cleaning charm, and he had hoped that given the late hour and the mass of homework still surrounding Hermione, he would have been able to put off a serious conversation until at least the morning. "No, Harry. We wouldn't. I know that … well, what he went through was horrible, but you don't really believe that simply suffering through bad things would make him a better person, do you? And he certainly doesn't seem like he wants to join our side, or stop hating the Muggleborn wizards." Harry looked away, and her tone grew more intense, pursuing her point. "He is a Slytherin to the core, Harry. He is a self-serving bully who doesn't care about other people. You can't simply wish for a person to change, or force them to - well, there is Imperius, but that's an academic question and anyway it's beside the point. A person will only change if they want to, Harry. And if has gone through everything you said he has, and he's still the same person – well – "

"You don't know that he hasn't changed because you didn't know him in the first place," Harry said belligerently. "And I didn't either, not before I lived with him – and he _is_ different. Look, I know he's an arse – I know. And I know that he can be mean and stupid but he can be really funny, too!"

"Yeah, he's hilarious," Ron said, rolling his eyes.

"You don't know him at all!" Harry shouted. He flinched, uncomfortably aware that people were staring at him. He lowered his voice, heedless in his anger. "Even if he _is_ a Slytherin, at least hecan _talk _to his friends! Why do you have to convince me of the error of my ways every bloody time I see you? Why can't you just – let it go, Hermione!"

She stood, her lips quivering and face pink. "I don't care what you say, Harry," she said forcefully, "Draco Malfoy is malicious and spiteful and you – he just isn't worth your time!" She fled up the stairs to the girls' dorm, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

For a long moment, Harry gaped after her, silent. Ron's mouth hung open, and they turned and looked at each other in the same moment. Harry's eyes hardened. "Well, are you going to run off too?" he asked sullenly.

Ron sighed and shook his head. "I dunno about Malfoy, Harry, but … maybe you know what you're doing with this. I can't see it, but I trust you."

Harry stared at him. "Thanks, Ron." Ron smiled and proposed a game of chess, and although Harry's promise itched at his conscience, no more was said about Draco Malfoy for the rest of the night.

* * *

A light snapped on with startling brightness in the empty house. It had lain barren and forgotten for several weeks, and the barrier of sunlight and life that had protected it had vanished. The flowering bushes and tender plants had withered in the face of the approaching Scottish winter, and had been devoured gleefully by the small, furry beasts that no longer heard the tones of human voices to shoo them away from the calla lilies or the ivy. One such beast, delicately nibbling on a tendril of ivy that had curved up the face of the house and down the nearest side, raised its head and snorted an insolent puff of smoke at the light.

It was September 24th, 1995, and the full moon had waxed overhead two weeks previous and then slowly retired to its celestial slumber. The sky above the animal was pitch dark and the stars trembled, scattered like a handful of sand across the heavens. The new moon hung invisibly in the night, and in the lonesome little house by the forest, magic was at work.

Books flew from the shelves as though invisible hands had flung them into the air, landing neatly in cartons that appeared from nowhere. Twine wrapped efficiently around them, the same invisible hand carefully writing names, dates on the top. The ladder leading to the attic heaved itself down upon the second floor, and packages sidestepped gracefully down its surface. Blankets, in the two bedrooms, folded themselves neatly, erasing the wrinkles that two boys and two men had left upon what had been, for a short time, their home.

Objects singled themselves out for special attention, lining carefully up in the hall as neat as dominos, collecting themselves into groups. A sparkle of jewelry went there, an ancient tome here. Letters, written and assembled at some unknown time, flew out of the drawer of the desk that had sat patiently in the house for decades, landing precisely upon each collected group of belongings. The hand that had written them was not strong, and one could see how the careful lines of calligraphy shook with illness or age or both. Packages sprung up around these little groups, the same neat twine making simple work of it. There were no names or dates to be written upon these boxes: instead, heavy envelopes popped out of the air atop them and were promptly engulfed with twine. The names upon these were written in a different, thicker hand, unfamiliar with wizarding letters. _Severus Snape,_ said one. _Kingsley Shacklebolt,_ said another. Dishware clanked and cookware crashed noisily.

The letters inside these envelopes were brief, and to the point. Legal language, not a familiar and more or less fond farewell. _In accordance with the Last Will and Testament of Remus John Lupin, herein find … _

Boxes popped out of sight quietly, whisking away to far corners of the globe or somewhere close at hand. In London, in Hogsmeade, in the quiet corners of dormitories filled with sleeping children. In rooms filled with strange and delicate metal instruments that twisted and turned in an invisible breeze. A richness of wishes to be carried out. A wealth of friends accumulated over that narrow span of years, not even two score.

The house lay silent under a world that spun heedlessly overhead.


	4. Rock and Troll

**Title:** The Spinning World: Rock and Troll

**Author:** Hans Bekhart

**Rating: **PG-13 for mentions of sexual violence and adult themes

**Summary:** In the sequel to "Casualties of War," Harry and Draco's fifth year at Hogwarts has begun, and they must try to rebuild the lives they used to lead. In which Voldemort can't stop the rock, Harry and Draco flirt in public, and Gregory Goyle has a very uncomfortable meeting with Narcissa Malfoy.

**Notes:** Huge thanks to thedelphi and seaoftethys for beta'ing to my mad schedule. I wanted to get this posted before the start of NaNoWriMo, and it's thanks to them that I was able to do it. You guys rock! I'm always sorry that it's so hard to respond to feedback here, but if you'd like to say hi or anything, please pop over to my livejournal, hansbekhart. Thanks for reading!

--

--

It is said that hindsight is clear.

Harry Potter's fifth year at Hogwarts was the year that he began to realise how very little he knew about the world that he lived in. He had come to learn over his summer months that there was a great deal he had never understood – about the people around him or the world he inhabited. In other worlds, in other times, it might have taken years more for him to be able to see these things, much less begin to act upon them. For nearly five years, he had been saving the world, and still information was withheld from him. Adults talked down to him; they expected a savior and a child in the same breath. The events that began his summer changed the path of his life. Without those ordeals, his education would probably have been left to Dumbledore's teachings, riddled with disinformation and careful omissions of truth.

Remus, Sirius and Draco had managed to change him. At fifteen, love was no longer an abstract concept, nebulous even though his parents had died for it, for him. He had seen love in _them._ He'd seen it in Remus' respect for him, his slow disintegration. In Sirius' loyalty, his friendship, his drive to bring the four of them together from places so different as to be nearly unimaginable, and knit them into a family. He had seen how love endured even when twisted and abused and wronged.

However (and there is always a however, an interruption in stories such as these) fifteen-year-old boys are never ready to conquer the world. Love is only one word that a boy needs to grow, and although his innate goodness had sheltered him throughout a childhood that would leave most incapable of normal human interaction, Harry was woefully short of many of these words, these compassions. Love is but one part of a person, and in the months that followed his return to Hogwarts, the challenge that faced Draco and Harry – the rebuilding of self – would have been far beyond the capacity of all but the most singular teenagers, to be able to stand together and be strong. As powerful and as earth shattering and as confusing as _everything_ is when you are young, some things are beyond you. The knowledge that death and pain are real can change a child in irrevocable ways, and the death of Pansy Parkinson touched every person in Hogwarts, whether they had known her or not, liked her or not. Such is the nature of a death of a child. Draco was a ghost among them, a physical reminder of how your life can be transformed in a single day, a divider in their minds of How Things Were Then and How Things Are Now. There are many moments like this in one's lifetime, and Draco Malfoy would hardly be the only student who would board the Hogwarts Express a different person come spring.

Hindsight is clear, and looking back over an ocean of time, Harry would later think that everything began one morning in late September. Those packages that arrived so innocuously during the night seemed to be pebbles dropped into still water, setting into motion a series of events that would touch the lives of far more than expected. Living secluded in Remus' Farmhouse had felt hugely important, life changing, and it had been. But building a haven is a far different thing from reclaiming a life.

It isn't often that one gets the opportunity to point to a single moment and say, "There. It started there." And if Harry had known or understood his classmates, he would have recognised that the chaos that spiraled far out of his control in later months did not begin the night that the last wishes (so to speak) of Remus John Lupin were carried out. But to explain why that morning some awoke to discover the death of an idol, or the death of an idea so much larger than life, and some found the spark of courage that would lead them to places they had always thought were best left to others, defies words. To understand would mean untangling the threads of a story that Harry and Draco would not recognise for quite some time.

Better, then, just to say:

It began on a cold September morning …

---

It began on a cold September morning, with the wind whipping through the trees, the last gusts of a storm that had passed over Hogwarts during the night. The fields and forests that sprawled around the ancient castle gleamed under the newly risen sun. And in the heights of the castle, up stairs that twisted cleverly around each other, tucked away in warm furnishings of red and gold, that first pebble was cast.

Harry snuffled and mumbled his way into awareness. His arms were wrapped tightly around his pillow, and he buried his face into its softness, annoyed by the noise outside his comfortable bed in that vague way that comes in the first moments between sleep and awareness. His subconscious rose and pulled him back into dreamland, blurring the lines of reality: Draco, naked, his pale skin luminous against the firelight that burned bright in Gryffindor common room, his long, shiny black hair tumbling down his back –

Harry let out a soft, confused snort and slapped a hand clumsily over his face. _How silly_, he thought, scornful of his own brain in his half-awake state. _Draco doesn't have black hair, Cho Chang does._

His curtains were ripped open suddenly. Harry half turned, startled, fully expecting to see Ron standing next to him, red in the face and somehow aware that Harry had been dreaming of naked Draco Malfoy, furious even though he had the wrong sort of hair. Instead, Dean Thomas was holding Harry's bed curtain in one clenched fist, looking angrier than Harry had ever seen him.

Harry sat up. Unexpectedly, in Dean's other hand was a mask, nearly a meter tall, carved from wood and stained black in places. Two faces harmoniously shared the central space where teak turned to blackness, splitting three eyes between them. A scrap of parchment was crumpled in the fist holding the curtain. Harry's eyes traveled blearily from Dean to mask to parchment and back to Dean, and discovered the final discomforting touch: Dean Thomas had tears in his eyes.

"What the hell is this about?" Dean shouted, shaking the mask at him. Behind him, Ron and Neville stood awkwardly, Seamus at his best friend's shoulder. Harry gaped at Dean.

"Where did that come from?" he asked stupidly.

"It was in a box by Dean's bed this morning," Neville interjected. "You've got one too."

Stiffly, Dean released his hold on Harry's curtains. He extended the fist with the parchment in it, and dropped it into Harry's lap. Harry unfolded it with clumsy fingers, bringing it up to his face and squinting at it.

_You were right about the headhunters._

_Take care of yourself._

_Remus Lupin_

"Professor Lupin's dead!" Dean shouted. His voice cracked between the words, like a young child. "And you knew about it!"

An icy finger seemed to slide down Harry's spine, and he looked up from the parchment reluctantly. His breath seemed to have gotten caught somewhere underneath his ribs. Ron met his eyes steadily, his face white. Neville stared at the floor.

"How did it happen?" Dean hissed.

"Come on, Dean," Seamus murmured, catching a hold of Dean's arm. Dean shook him off, his eyes fixed on Harry. Harry, for his part, felt transfixed. He had the uncomfortable suspicion that if he didn't answer soon, Dean would actually hit him. Quiet, placid Dean – who was always playing peacemaker between Seamus and others, who watched everything with knowing eyes and never said bad things about anybody – was about to hit him on the face.

It had never occurred to Harry that maybe, just maybe his classmates would miss Remus too.

"Voldemort captured him," he said hesitantly. "At the beginning of summer hols. Everyone thought he'd been killed, but Snape showed up with him after the full moon, hurt really badly. They were able to save him but … he – he just never got better."

Dean blinked twice, hard, in rapid succession. He lifted his face up to the ceiling. The noise that escaped his throat wasn't quite a sob. He looked back into Harry's face. "You should have told us."

"I didn't – "

"You should have told _me_," Dean hissed. He stormed out of the room, the mask still in his hand. There was a moment of horrified silence.

"Harry," Seamus said awkwardly. "Sorry, Harry – he's – "

But Seamus couldn't find the words, and after a pause, he turned and followed Dean out of the dormitory. They heard his feet clatter down the steps.

"Wow," Neville said softly.

"Yeah," Ron echoed, sounding awed.

Harry stared at his hands miserably. Avoiding their eyes, he threw off his blankets and went to see what was in the small box that lay at the foot of his bed. It was smaller than Dean's, whose box he could see laying on its side through the open curtains of Dean's bed, and was wrapped primly with twine. Underneath was an envelope of thick, creamy paper bearing his name in bold letters. Harry sat back down on his bed and unwrapped the twine gingerly, pulling the envelope free of its confines. The bed settled beside him as Ron seated himself next to Harry, peering over his shoulder.

"That's from the Goblin Bank," Ron advised as Harry unfolded the paper. "Lupin must have set up instructions for his Will through them. Mum got one of these when my Uncle Bilius died."

The paper itself was full of long words that had little meaning for Harry, but Ron seemed to understand it well enough. He pointed out to Harry the spell that had caused the appearance of Remus' last gifts to Harry and Dean in their dormitory, and added that there were likely loads of other people waking up to similar scenes. "Whoever he left things to," Ron said, and Harry wondered what Remus had left Sirius. He'd been owling Sirius back and forth since term began, and it didn't seem like his godfather was coping very well. He had been living in an isolated old property of the Black family in Northumberland, handed down through the ages and definitely lacking in modern wizarding conveniences such as indoor plumbing or heating. Sirius had told Harry that it suited him just fine, but privately Harry was worried.

He set the parchment aside, and Neville scooped it up as he sat down on Harry's other side, scrutinizing it carefully. Harry sucked in a deep breath and held it as he unwrapped the rest of the twine carefully. A small letter was laid carefully over the contents of the box, and Harry moved this to his lap before picking up what Remus had left him.

Laid on top was an intricate pearl bracelet, three strands of tiny, irregular pearls held together with a single silver clasp, the three strands trailing below the clasp with one thread of thicker, orange pearls, another of fat white ones and the third with delicate silver beads. Harry frowned slightly and lifted it up, turning it this way and that in his palm.

"That's lovely, Harry," Neville said.

Harry nodded, distantly, and reached into the box to pull out the other object inside. It fit snugly into the small box and was wrapped in several layers of thin tissue, but even before his clumsy fingers tore the paper away, he knew what it was.

The mother of pearl moons that marched orderly around the edges gleamed cheerfully in the bright morning sun, and the dark wood seemed to have a honey glow. Harry's fingers hovered over the lid, hesitantly. Ron and Neville's voices, complimenting or querying, seemed to be very far away, and strangely Harry found that he _couldn't_ open the music box, _couldn't_ again see those tiny figures of Sirius and Remus and himself as a baby. There was a horrible squeezing in his chest, and Harry knew that if he opened the lid of the music box and heard the sly tinkle of music within, it would simply be too much.

A monstrous shame overcame him. He had never considered Remus' death very carefully; so much had gone on in the past month that the time to mourn for his ex-professor and friend seemed to slip through his fingers like sand. He had been so occupied with schoolwork and dealing with Draco and trying so hard to slip back into his old life that he had never really accepted the simple fact that Remus was gone, and Harry would never see him again.

"You ok, Harry?" Neville's soft voice was close to his ear. Harry ducked his head and nodded, and that was when the scrap of parchment fluttered out from between his fingers. Remus had left a letter for him as well, it seemed, written in a tremulous and neat hand.

_Harry,_

_There are a lot of people who can still tell you about your father, but I'm sorry that I never had a chance to tell you about your mother and how much I treasured her friendship. The pearl bracelet, as you may have guessed, belonged to her. Please forgive an old werewolf's reticence for not knowing how to say this before I shuffled off this mortal coil and wouldn't have to be embarrassed about it afterwards, but I love you and I am very proud of you. I have always treasured the times that I spent with you, whether when you were a baby or when I was your professor, and I'm sorry that I was not more a part of your life. _

_Don't ever be embarrassed to ask Sirius about your parents, and look after the old fool for me, when I no longer can. It's not an easy task, but I have the utmost faith in you._

_Remus_

Harry blinked hard and very determinedly did not cry. He handed the paper over when Ron asked to see it, but left his eyes rooted on the music box, and the bracelet, which he had set upon his knee. The dormitory seemed very quiet, shielded from the twitter of birds or shouts from the Gryffindor common room, and suddenly Harry wished very much that Draco was there, so that he could make some barbed comment and make Harry angry, or maybe kiss him until Harry forgot all about feeling like this.

-

Draco Malfoy, on the other side of Hogwarts castle, was sound asleep. It was a pleasant sleep, undisturbed by nightmares or any dreams but the most gossamer. He woke naturally, undisturbed by angry housemates, long after Harry had showered and dressed. He was not naturally an early riser, but sleeping patterns were always sketchy in the Slytherin dungeons, whose inhabitants did not have the sun to tell them when to wake, and had at any rate been sleeping less these days. He laid for some time in his bed, still curled beneath his blankets, blinking sleepily, a contented smile on his face. The darkness of the dormitory painted everything within his bed curtains a deep gray.

After some time, he pushed himself upwards, retrieving his pajama bottoms from the foot of the bed and wiggling into them. He was still smiling when he pushed the curtains open, enjoying the way the cool stone felt on his bare feet. He went out of the dormitory and padded down to the showers without noticing the box that sat peacefully on the trunk at the foot of his bed, and enjoyed a long shower without having truly woken up. Draco was not often a quiet person, but a sort of mute peace had overtaken him.

He paused thoughtfully when he reentered the dormitory and observed Vincent and Theo in deep meditation over an object at the foot of his bed. "Good morning," he said slowly.

Vincent jumped, but Theo only raised his head and gave a cool salutation back. "Draco," Vincent said excitedly, "There's a package here for you. Who's it from?"

"I've no idea," Draco said, annoyed. "I haven't looked at it." The probability that it was from his mother loomed large in his mind, and he moved forward to snatch the package from Theo's hands. He dug out the envelope beneath the twine with some difficulty, balancing the box on his dead hand as he sat down on his trunk. Theo and Vincent hovered close, curious.

Unlike Harry, Draco recognised the origin of the package immediately. His mother had received quite a few of these sorts of packages over the years, as members of the ancient and noble house of Black slowly died off. Sometimes they came with interesting Dark Arts artifacts (which he had never been allowed to play with, much to his disappointment) enclosed in tidy boxes just like the one he currently held, and when his paternal grandfather had died of dragonpox, it had contained impertinent letters demanding payment of debts incurred by the recently departed. The box was rectangular, and upon opening it Draco discovered two boxes of equal size stuffed neatly inside. He turned the package upside down and shook it to slide the smaller boxes out, handling them clumsily.

He began to laugh when he opened the first box and saw the tarnished brass trumpet resting oddly atop the square wooden base. "What is that?" Gregory asked, sitting down beside Draco and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"It's a gramophone," Theo said, when Draco did not stop giggling to answer him.

"It's Remus' gramophone," Draco corrected breathlessly. "Professor Lupin's. He willed me his gramophone – and look! All the records, too." Shrunken, the gramophone and box of records fit on top of each palm, and he held them up for his friends to see before setting them on the ground and retrieving his wand to restore them to their proper size.

"What does it do?" Blaise asked, kneeling by the box of records and reaching forward to flick through the album covers.

"It plays rock and troll," Draco said.

"Rock and roll," Theo corrected.

Draco paused. "Really?"

"Play something," Vincent encouraged, his eyes gleaming.

Draco surveyed the gramophone thoughtfully, mirth still hiding in the corners of his mouth.

"Take it to the common room, Draco," Blaise urged. "Show it off."

Draco grinned.

They brought the gramophone to the common room with them. Vincent carried the gramophone itself, and Gregory the box of records that had come with it. As their housemates trickled out of the dormitories, rubbing sleep from their eyes, they were greeted to the solemn sight of the fifth year Slytherins arranging the gramophone to perfection on the high table away from the fireplace.

Draco flipped through the box of records while Theo peered at the needle of the player. Montague and Pucey shouldered the smaller students out of the way and looked over Draco's shoulder in an authoritarian sort of manner. Most of the titles were unfamiliar to the children gathered worshipfully around, but the covers and names were colourful and fascinating. "Put something on already," Montague said, gifting Draco with a jab on the back of the neck. Draco grimaced at him and said nothing. His fingers hovered over an album and then plucked it out from the fold, sliding the black disk out of its sleeve carefully, the way Remus had taught him.

He glanced up at his friends before lifting the needle and placing it precisely in the first shiny groove. The common room seemed to hold its breath as the first hiss and pop came through the horn above the record, and Draco closed his eyes and saw time and history stretch and fall away before him, linking him to a spirit he never knew existed.

Music is an equalizer, and knows no more boundaries than love itself does. The sound that issued forth from that gramophone caught their breath in their lungs as it had the generation before theirs, stopping all words for the sex and power that dripped from every syllable.

_"Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel …" _

_----_

The mood in the Great Hall was somber. It was still early enough that the long tables were not yet full, and knots of students were interspersed along their lengths. At the high table, Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra were bent closely over an ancient roll of parchment. Professor Flitwick was holding his glasses in one hand, scrubbing at his eyes with the other. Professor McGonagall's fork was loose between her fingers, and her eyes were far away. At the Gryffindor table, Fred and George Weasley sat together before a box filled with paper, strange toys spread out before them. George's head rested upon Fred's shoulder, his lips pressed thin. "All this time," Harry heard him say as he passed. "A whole year in his class and we never figured it out."

Harry Potter and Dean Thomas hadn't been the only people to receive packages in the night.

Hermione and Ron dropped onto the bench on either side of Harry. "Don't worry about Dean," Hermione said comfortingly. "He's just upset."

Harry reached glumly for some toast and jam. "I just didn't know that he liked Remus so much." He didn't notice the look that passed over his head between them, staring instead over at the Slytherin table on the other side of the Hall, where not a single Slytherin sat. The long table was bare of even platters of food, as though the house elves below their feet knew that no food would be needed. He felt unreasonably annoyed that Draco did not seem to be around, as if the Slytherin had no right to skip breakfast just when he was wanted.

He picked sullenly at his breakfast, unwilling to let Ron or Hermione draw him into conversation. His raw mood had vanished some time ago, and he had pulled himself sufficiently enough together to leave the Gryffindor dormitories but not enough to face Dean, who was standing with Seamus in a corridor, his eyes rimmed with red. They had all looked uncomfortably at the ground as Harry passed by, Ron in tow.

His mother's bracelet was still cool against his skin, hidden underneath the sleeve of his robe. He had slipped it on when he was getting dressed, and had discovered with obscure delight that when his arm was at this side, he could touch the three strands that dangled down with the tips of his fingers. It was strange to think of his mother wearing the same piece of jewelry he wore now, and he wished that Remus had told him more about it. Had Harry's father given it to her?

He dropped his right wrist down below the table, reaching for his orange juice with the left, covertly stroking the pearls with his fingertips. Maybe his father had given it to her before they were married; surprised her with it like the men sometimes did on Aunt Petunia's soaps, over a romantic candle-lit dinner. Harry knew uncomfortably that he had no frame of reference for romance or relationships; he would rather have gouged his eyeballs out than see Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon flirting over candlelight, and he was aware enough to know that Remus and Sirius' relationship had hardly been orthodox. He took a bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully, wondering if Draco would laugh at him if Harry asked whether boys could go on dates together.

At first, Harry didn't hear his name being called. He was lost in thought, still absently holding his fork in one hand, vaguely contemplating the eggs on his plate and the possibility that his father had given his mother the bracelet when Harry was a little baby, and maybe he had even seen her wear it, even if he couldn't remember. He was aware of Ron and Hermione's eyes on him before he noticed the presence of the girl standing behind him.

"Oh, hi," he stammered, twisting around in his seat to look up into the face of Cho Chang.

"Hi, Harry," she said, her cheeks pink. "How are you?"

"I'm – alright," he said blankly. "How are you?"

"Good," she said, a little breathlessly. "I just came over to say hello – I haven't seen you since term started."

"Yeah, I've been pretty busy … got O.W.L.s this year," Harry replied. Inwardly, he felt quite surprised with himself. A few months ago, even thinking about talking to Cho tied his stomach up in painful knots. As soon as he approached her, his brain felt as though it had abruptly shut off, leaving him gasping, devoid of all clever and charming things to say.

Strangely, he felt quite comfortable. He looked up at Cho and studied her face as they conversed. She really was quite pretty.

After she had gone, Harry turned back to his breakfast to find the eyes of his friends upon him. Hermione had a strange smile across her face. "What?" he asked, guardedly.

"Nothing," she said loftily, her smile broadening. Harry frowned at her.

He was distracted from responding when Ginny threw herself down in the empty seat across from them, grinning hugely. "What are you so happy about?" Hermione asked, turning her attention away from Harry.

Ginny laughed. "Haven't you heard? Hagrid's back."

---

Harry caught up to Draco on the way to Care of Magical Creatures. He spotted the familiar white-blond head, now fuzzy with newly grown hair, far beyond them in the throng of sluggish students that moved across the grounds. "Draco!" he called, and muttered a quick apology to Ron and Hermione even as he hurried to catch up, nearly tripping in his rush down the steep hillside. Draco turned and, seeing Harry, slowed his pace. Crabbe and Goyle, trailing behind him, slowed as well.

Harry fell into step beside Draco and they resumed walking, Draco's cronies looming uncomfortably close behind. "Hello," Draco said casually.

Harry, breathless from running and the morning's confusion, didn't bother with a greeting. "Where have you been all day? Why weren't you at breakfast? Or lunch? What's going on? Did you get something from Remus too?"

Draco nodded, his expression annoyingly lofty. Around them, groups of students passed by, glaring at Harry or Draco according to the colour of their scarves. "What did you get?" he asked.

"A bracelet of my mother's and the music box from the study – the one with the moons on the side," Harry replied. Unconsciously, he gasped his right wrist, comforted by the irregular shape of the pearls beneath his sleeve.

"I wonder how Remus ended up with your mother's jewelry," Draco mused. Behind them, Crabbe and Goyle chortled, and Harry jumped.

"His note didn't say," he answered, annoyed. "You didn't tell me what he left you."

"Music. He gave me his player and all of his records. We missed breakfast because everyone wanted to listen to it."

"Oh," Harry said. "I wonder why he did that."

Draco shrugged. "I suspect it will turn out to be one of those wonderfully eloquent life lesson sort of things." There came another rumble of laughter from the mountains of flesh behind them. "But in the meantime it is nice to have some life in the common room – everyone has been frightfully depressed lately."

"Everyone was all upset this morning," Harry grumbled. "I practically got attacked by Dean Thomas."

Draco raised his eyebrows. His cheeks and nose were pink in the cold, and the expression gave him the look of a startled rabbit. "Dean Thomas? Why? Because of Remus' will?"

Harry nodded, reluctantly. "I didn't know he liked Remus so much."

Draco scoffed. "Of course he does. He used to natter on all the time about how _wonderful_ Professor Lupin was and how Professor Lupin was the _best_ Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had. You must have been completely deaf not to notice all of that."

"I guess so," Harry muttered.

They had caught up to their classmates by this time, who were grouped awkwardly around Hagrid's hut, stunned into silence by the appearance of their teacher, who stood waiting for them at the edge of the forest with what looked to be half a dead cow slung over his shoulder.

"Wonderful," Draco said sourly, as they approached. "This looks promising." However, he followed Harry as the Gryffindor made his way forward, _and only settled his arms across his chest._

"Everybody gather roun'," Hagrid said expansively, a cheerful smile on his face despite the expanse of faded bruises there. His eye looked to have been blackened some time previous, and there was a healing scrape on his chin that had yet to vanish. "We're working in _there _today." He jerked his head to the trees that encroached behind his home, and they rustled ominously, as though in response. Draco looked nonplussed.

"I've bin savin' this trip fer yer fifth year," Hagrid continued. "It's a right special opportunity we got – I reckon I'm probably the on'y person aroun' who's managed ter –"

"Excuse me," Draco said loudly. "Are we going to see an animal that requires a dead moose as bait? Shouldn't we have a trained Mediwizard on hand, in case yet another of your lectures goes awry?"

"It's a cow," Hagrid said gruffly. "An' never you mind, Malfoy." However, most of the Slytherins – and not a few of the Gryffindors – were nodding in agreement. Hagrid scowled defensively and hitched the dead cow higher up on his shoulder. Unpleasantly, Harry noticed that a large bit of clotted blood had oozed out of the carcass and made its way onto his shoulder. He stared, fascinated, as Hagrid continued his lecture.

"As I were sayin', we're goin' inter the forest today fer a real surprise. So allya can go ahead and star' walking, we'll get there in a bit." He gestured with one hand, and the cow legs swung out in a sickening arc over his shoulder.

The students looked at each other anxiously, and nobody moved towards the Forbidden Forest until Hermione, with a tutting sort of noise, moved with Ron into the woods. Once the lead was taken, other students walked reluctantly between the trees, in quiet groups. Harry, Draco, Hagrid and Draco's cohorts remained where they were.

Hagrid beamed down on Harry. "Alright, Harry? How's yer summer?"

"Good," Harry said hesitantly, trying to draw his eyes away from the stain on Hagrid's shoulder. He knew without looking that his eyes had drawn Draco's attention to it; the other boy was snickering quietly behind his hand. "Sorry I didn't come and see you earlier."

"S'oright," Hagrid said agreeably. "I got back to Hogwarts late, wouldna wanted ya ter break _curfew."_

"Er," Harry said hesitantly, "what happened to your face?"

Hagrid's expression darkened and a brief sadness flashed through his eyes. "Ah, well," he said slowly, "I was, er – doin' a favour for Dumbledore, over the summer. Top Secret stuff, y'know. But I found summat important there and tried – well, I shouldn' tell yer that, but anyway it's escaped and gone – er, I mean, it turned out ter be not so important after all."

Draco smirked. "You lost it, then?"

Hagrid scowled at him. "Mind yer own business. And if yer through asking stupid questions, you c'n join the rest of yer class in the forest." With that, he nodded to Harry and turned away, hoisting the dead cow more comfortably across his shoulder.

Harry elbowed Draco in the side. "Leave Hagrid alone," he said.

"Why?" Draco said snidely, rubbing his ribs. "Are you actually going to tell me you're looking forward to meeting the great moose eating beast of the forest? That you really think whatever he's so excited about isn't going to think that a student would be a much better meal than half of a dead thing?" Harry, who had taken a few steps forward to follow Hagrid and the rest of their class, looked back over his shoulder at Draco. The only students still gathered around Hagrid's little hut were Draco, Crabbe and Goyle; the body of their class had gone on into the forest and disappeared within its shadow.

"You just don't like him because you got hurt – "

"Pardon me for thinking that being gored by a wild beast is a fine reason to hold a grudge," Draco muttered.

"— well, that was your fault, anyway. And you weren't gored."

He lowered his head and trudged on into the Forbidden Forest without waiting for the inevitable spiteful remark from Draco. He passed through the first line of trees without paying much notice. The wet of the night still clung to the earth, plants and fallen leaves indistinguishable and equally silent underfoot. He walked on for some distance without noticing that he was alone.

He paused when he heard Goyle speak from some distance behind him, as though the shorter of Draco's henchmen had never moved from where they had stood during Hagrid's lecture. The Slytherin boy's raspy voice was pitched low and urgent, and when he spoke again – "Draco?" – Harry turned and retracted his steps. He found the three boys standing in a curious group in the very foot of the forest.

Draco was frozen, one hand outstretched, barely grazing the surface of the tree before him. His eyes slid closed, and then fluttered open. Crabbe and Goyle hovered on either side of him, mirror expressions of concern and confusion on their craggy faces. Harry drew close enough to hear Draco's slow, ponderous intake of breath. He put a hand over Draco's drawing it away from the tree. "Alright, Draco?" he asked.

Draco pulled his hand out of Harry's grip, his eyes refocusing on Harry's face for only a moment before flicking back towards the forest. "Why, do I look like I need rescuing, golden boy?"

Goyle's heavy hand landed on Draco's shoulder. "You ok?"

Draco looked at him blankly, seemingly oblivious to his flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged glances. Harry frowned. "Come on, Draco. We'll be late for – "

"I don't care about this stupid class!" Draco shouted suddenly. "We were better off with that Grubbly-Plank woman and I have no intention of humoring that servant and letting myself be eaten by whatever his glorious surprise is!" He turned and stomped away, walking very fast. Harry made a move to pursue, bewildered, but was immediately blocked.

"We'll handle it," Crabbe rumbled.

Harry considered the futility of trying to push past the bigger boys. "No," he objected angrily. "I'll talk to him."

"He's _our _friend – " Goyle said, scowling, but Crabbe put a hand on his shoulder, turning the other boy towards him. Their posture seemed to take Harry out of the equation, as though there was no question that it would be one of them that would rush to console Draco out of his fit. There wasn't, Harry thought. Unconsciously, he stepped backwards, retreating from their space. They seemed to forget his existence as soon as he had left their immediate field of vision.

"Go to class," Crabbe said. "You can't miss it, you'll get in trouble again. Take notes for me. I'll get Draco." Goyle nodded, grudgingly. He vanished into the Forbidden Forest, where the class had long since disappeared into its shadows. After a long moment, Harry followed him, helplessly.

Vincent Crabbe turned and wearily followed Draco's meandering path back up the hill. His footsteps were still visible in the still-glimmering grass, and swayed back and forth, leaving wet footprints when he finally caught up with the stone path leading to the circle of speaking stones.

He found Draco crouched in the grass at the foot of one of the stones, retching pitifully. He didn't raise his head when Vincent approached, but snaked out a hand and clutched blindly at the air. Gingerly, Vincent offered his hand, and Draco grabbed it and held it tightly. His entire body was shaking with the effort of throwing up, and Vincent laid his other hand atop Draco's, enfolding those long, thin fingers entirely between his big paws. He wondered if maybe he should rub Draco's back, the way his mum had done for him once when he had been ill.

So much of what Draco usually did was beyond the scope of Vincent's comprehension, and he was used to that, really he was. He and Gregory had always been happy to shamble along with Draco and play along whatever fantasy he'd thought up for them that day, or maybe rough up anybody that he wanted roughed up. They'd been friends just about forever, and even if sometimes Draco made fun of them for being slow, or for not getting jokes, he always shared his chocolates with them and always helped if one of them was falling behind in class.

The last few weeks, as far as Vincent was concerned, had been absolutely awful. They never knew when Draco was going to run off with Potter or just run off and turn up hours later with no explanation, and Draco … Draco had always been their center, as unpredictable and bratty as he could be. No matter what sort of tantrums he had thrown, he always came back to Vincent and Gregory, sulky and emotional but still Draco, still easily pacified when they let him poke fun at them. Vincent knew that he didn't really understand what had happened to Draco over the summer. It was far beyond his and Gregory's comprehension and that was alright, he was alright with that, but it was all scary in a way that he'd never felt before.

Vincent had wanted so badly to grow up. They talked about it a lot when they were little – as little as he and Gregory had ever been, anyway – when Draco had tired of games that they had to run around for and had taken them into their secret hideout, the crawl space beneath the stairs, and lit the candle they kept in there just for themselves. That was when they talked about being grown ups. About being able to use magic, to swagger like Draco's dad did, to stay up as late as they wanted and get the house-elves to make them chocolate fools whenever they wanted.

Now all Vincent wanted was to be little again. His life had been changed more than he'd have ever thought it could, and he wasn't even involved in any of it. He hadn't known that anything had happened; his dad had gone out the night that it happened, and had eaten his eggs and bacon the next morning at breakfast as though he'd only gone to the Notts' for drinks. All term, he'd wanted to ask Draco about it, whether Draco knew whose dad was who under the Death Eater masks, whether Vincent's dad had been one of the ones who … hurt Pansy and Draco. Vincent's imagination stubbornly insisted that his dad couldn't have hurt his friends, had stayed in the back and maybe watched in horror or something, but wasn't that just the problem? He didn't know for sure.

He took a hand from Draco's and rubbed gently over Draco's shoulder blades. They felt small and fragile underneath his hand, like baby bird wings. He knew that when he stood up, he'd have big dirty patches on his robes where he was kneeling in the wet grass, but he stayed where he was because maybe he could make Draco feel just a little bit better that way.

He stared up into the sky and listened silently to Draco's sobs, and knew that he would give just about anything to still be small enough to crawl into that space under the stairs with Draco and Gregory and maybe Theo and never have to be grown up again.

---------

The first Hogsmeade weekend came early that year, the first weekend of October, and that morning saw a return to the howling storms that announced the arrival of each winter. The air was heavy and gray, and when they trooped up to the courtyard to await permission to leave it seemed that at any moment the sky would open up and dump petulant rain on their heads. Potter and Draco eyed each other warily from across the courtyard, but did not approach.

They hadn't spoken much since that disastrous Care of Magical Creatures class, even though they had had Potions together. Potter had tried several times to speak to Draco during meals without much result. Gregory clamped down on the fierce joy that rose inside him when he saw them glaring at each other like they used to do, permitting himself only a shared glance with Vincent. Draco had been erratic of late, and they were still rather lost without his commanding presence. It felt almost like old times as they pulled their scarves closer around their necks and set off for Hogsmeade, Draco's voice lifted in exaggerated complaints about the weather, the lack of coaches to drive them to the village, and how crowded it would be once they got there. Vincent and Gregory trudged along behind him, grunting every so often in agreement, each hiding happy smiles.

It began to rain when they were nearly to Hogsmeade. Draco took pity on Vincent and Gregory and cast water repellant charms on all of them. He seemed like a pale ghost, bright against the backdrop of muddy grass and increasingly barren trees, the outline of his form blurred along the edges of his Charm. Gregory wiped the water from his face and they all fell back into formation.

The herd of children that staggered into Hogsmeade village broke off into smaller groups immediately, chattering excitedly and rushing this way and that. For once, it seemed that Draco did not have a specific goal in mind, and they wandered the streets for a long while, dodging into shops at random. Vincent needed new quills, and Gregory was running low on powdered newt's blood. Draco griped for some time over an uncharacteristic desire for hot tea, but balked at going to either Madam Puddifoot's or any of the public houses. Neither Vincent nor Gregory noticed that, in marked difference to his usual habits, Draco bought nothing all day. It would never have occurred to them to worry about Draco's finances, anymore than it would have occurred to Draco to tell them about it. Discussing money was coarse, their mothers had always told them, and anyway it was all rather embarrassing for Draco, who had never before considered life without easy access to material comforts. He wasn't restricted from accessing the Malfoy or Black vaults, as far as he knew, but the idea of doing so was rather unfathomable. If truth were told, Draco was afraid, but only in that vague way that comes with imaging something that you truly have no knowledge of.

Vincent stopped at the cart that always stood beside Gladrags, and bought a paper sack full of hot roasted chestnuts. Thunder grumbled over their heads as portions were doled out between them. They walked slowly back in the direction of the Three Broomsticks, carefully prying the hot shells away from the sweet meat inside. Draco was filling up the silences as he usually did, rambling on about his summer at Professor Lupin's, some story about fire breathing cows that he'd already told them. He'd stopped inserting daring battles with Muggles into his stories when he was thirteen, but even patient Terry Boot would have told Draco to shush about those damn cows by that point. Vincent and Gregory never minded. They knew that the cows were real because Draco had made one out of socks and it had briefly been the vogue of the common room, and neither of them really cared that there were no orang-utans in Scotland.

They were slow to notice when Draco abruptly stopped talking and scurried to the left, diving into an alleyway. They turned as one and stared at him, dumbfounded, until he hissed impatiently. "What the hell are you doing, get over here!" They shambled over willingly, and waited for an explanation.

"Didn't you see her?"

Gregory inched over to the mouth of the alleyway and peered around the corner. His eyes scanned the busy street. "I don't see –" he said, and then he did.

She was quite tall, but he hadn't recognised her because she was cloaked, a hood pulled up over her hair and face. The faintest wisp of honey-coloured hair had escaped its confines, and she brushed at it, her fingers lined with rings. Gregory had seen those rings many times, curled around a teacup or a wand and even once on Draco's fingers.

He ducked back in the alleyway. "What's your mum doing in Hogsmeade?"

"How should I know?" Draco's tone was verging on hysteria. "We have to get away without her seeing us. I can't talk to her."

Vincent's eyes widened, realisation making a slow journey across his heavy features. "Draco," he said in astonishment, "you haven't talked to your mum since we've been back."

Draco flinched. "You haven't?" Gregory asked, shocked. "But you get so many letters …"

He thought hard. Yes, Mrs. Malfoy's owl had brought a steady stream of letters, probably at least once a day, and Gregory had felt so glad seeing them and knowing that Draco was back with people who liked him, and his mum knew that he was alright. But he hadn't noticed Draco writing anything back.

"I can't talk to her," Draco repeated dully, not meeting their eyes.

Gregory hesitated, and then turned and walked out of the alley. He paid no heed to Draco's noise of outrage or Vincent's attempts to hold him back. He walked straight across the street and over to where Mrs. Malfoy stood gazing blankly into a shop window.

"Mrs. Malfoy?" he asked awkwardly.

She turned swiftly, more so than he was expecting and he took half a step backwards, startled. Her face held such light and hope – which faded when she saw that he was alone. Her eyes darted up the street, and Gregory hoped that Vincent and Draco were staying out of sight.

"Hello, Gregory," she said, and managed a smile. "Why are you all by yourself?"

"Draco's back at the castle," Gregory blurted. She blinked. "I mean, if you're looking for him – er – he stayed behind because he's sick."

Her hands clenched convulsively. "He's sick?" she asked.

"I – I mean, he had homework to finish," Gregory said. He was painfully conscious of the blush on his face.

Her eyes darted again over his shoulder. It was a physical effort to keep himself from following her eyes and giving them all away. When her clear eyes had settled back on him, there was raw pain obvious within them. "Gregory," she pleaded, "tell me how he is. Please."

Gregory shifted from one foot to the other. "He's alright," he mumbled. "We thought he was writing to you."

She shook her head, bringing her hand up to wipe away sudden tears. Gregory stared at the rings on her fingers rather than her face, stricken. "Nobody will tell me anything," she said thickly. "Not Dumbledore, not the Ministry – the Parkinsons have moved to the continent – I haven't heard a single word from my son since the beginning of summer – the only time I've seen him was in the papers and there were – were scars all over his face – I haven't heard from my husband for weeks –" She broke off abruptly, visibly trying to compose herself.

Gregory wracked his brains for something to say. He wished fervently that Draco would come round and take care of his mum. Gregory's mum had told him what to do if he ever saw a girl cry: offer her a handkerchief and a willing ear, she said, that's a good start. But did that still apply to other people's mums, too? He just didn't know.

He chanced an upward glance and saw that she wasn't crying anymore. She had a lost, anxious look and her features were a perfect blank. Gregory had seen Draco look like that sometimes, when he was overwhelmed, as though his entire body couldn't decide which emotion to feel first.

Mrs. Malfoy's eyes focused on him suddenly, and he fought the urge to take another step back. Her eyes seemed to bore into him, pinning him in place. Someone jostled his shoulder, and he bit his lip and tried to stay still.

"Watch over my son." It was almost a command, the way she said it, and he nodded eagerly without being conscious of it. "And tell me if … if anything happens."

"Alright," he said, because she seemed to be expecting it.

Some of the hardness in her eyes smoothed away, and once again she was the lady that would give them sweets and wooden swords, once upon a time. "There's a good lad," she said softly, and reached out and smoothed his hair. She hesitated. "I have a favour to ask you."

"Ok," Gregory mumbled. He thought he could feel the water repellant charm wearing off, and he held an experimental hand out to the side while she fumbled in her purse, finally bringing out a small gold box wrapped with ribbon and holding it out to him. He took it, awkwardly.

"Chocolates," she said softly, a faint blush upon her cheeks. "With raspberries. They're Draco's favourites. Will you give those to him, Gregory?"

He nodded. "Bye, Mrs. Malfoy. Don't worry about nothing, Vince and me will look after him."

"Goodbye, Gregory," she said. "I hope I'll see you again soon."

He blushed and turned away, walking quickly with his head down. He walked past the alleyway where he assumed Draco and Vincent were still hiding, and up the main road of Hogsmeade Village.

He could have kicked himself for making such a stupid choice as going to talk to Mrs. Malfoy all by himself. Draco told them that all the time, that they should just leave all the decisions to him since he made the right ones, and here Gregory hadn't listened to him and hadn't that been _uncomfortable_. He sighed heavily and turned his steps towards the Three Broomsticks. He definitely deserved a butterbeer after that, even if he had acted pretty thick.

Merlin, Draco was going to kill him when he told Draco all of that. Especially about getting mixed up and not wanting Mrs. Malfoy to think Draco was sick. What an idiot.

He claimed a table in the corner of the busy pub and sat with his face propped on his hands, waiting anxiously for the hammer of doom to fall upon him. The Three Broomsticks was crowded at that time of day; they had been wandering long enough that many of their classmates had gotten tired of shopping and come to put their feet up and drink a nice warm butterbeer. Millicent, Daphne and Warrington waved at him, and he nodded in acknowledgement. The Golden Trio, as Draco used to call them, were huddled closely along one side of a long bench, and didn't look over.

Gregory didn't have long to wait. Draco slid into the seat across from him and sat without speaking, staring at him. Over his shoulder, Vincent was getting drinks for them from the bar. Draco and Gregory stared at each other without moving until Vincent joined them, handing out drinks with a careful hand. Draco rested both of his hands around the steaming mug; the hand that had been burned didn't bend far enough to curl around the mug. His gray eyes were hooded, waiting for Gregory to speak. And so Greg did. He spoke haltingly and at length, never as comfortable with words as Draco or even Vincent was. Vincent's eyes stayed wide, and Draco's were narrowed, and together they presented an almost comedic mirror, one craggy and round, the other all angles.

"Your mum is really sad, Draco," he said. "Oh – and she gave me this. For you, I mean." He handed over the box of chocolates, and Draco took it with both hands, staring down at it intently before setting it on the table and pulling off the ribbon with his good hand.

"They've got raspberries," Gregory said. "She said they were your favourite."

Draco's mouth twitched. "When I was nine."

"Oh." Gregory took a long, fortifying swig of butterbeer and said, "You're angry with me."

Draco looked up at him and smirked. "Why would I be angry, Greg?"

"Cuz your mum knows I lied to her," Gregory mumbled.

"That was pretty dumb," Vincent agreed.

"Yes," Draco said, with mocking gravity. "Yes, it was. But nothing happened, you know. Unless you want to iron your hands or slam your head in a door, what can I do? If you'd really like to make it up to me, I'll allow you to buy me dinner. But only if you ask me nicely."

Gregory grinned feebly.

They finished their butterbeers in companionable conversation, Draco eating his way with great concentration through his box of chocolates, heedless of the threat of sweets ruining his appetite, and Gregory had almost relaxed by the time they picked themselves up and wound their way out of the pub – but not without a detour past Potter and his playmates first.

Draco stopped directly behind Potter, and Vincent and Gregory took up their places behind him, folding their arms and scowling to look more menacing. Gregory hoped that Draco would put Potter in his place and then they could move on and get some dinner. He was _hungry_ and he didn't like knowing that there was the possibility that maybe Draco would want to have dinner with Potter instead of them.

"Hello, Potter," Draco drawled. "Enjoying your day?"

"Yeah," Potter said, his eyes guarded. "Do you want something?"

Draco's smirk widened. "Well, I'd apologise for the atrocious way that I behaved on Tuesday, but I wouldn't want Measly Weasley to think that I had a soul. Shall we cross wands on the Quidditch pitch at dawn instead?"

Potter's grin had spread across his stupid face, as though he and Draco were speaking some sort of code. "Better make it the trophy room, at –" he hesitated, glancing at the disapproving expression on Granger's face, "—eight?"

Draco bowed stiffly. "Make sure you come alone," he said haughtily. "I don't want there to be any trouble when I attempt to murder you."

"Scared you can't handle all of us?"

Draco sniffed. "Well," he said lightly, "it's only that everyone's been so sympathetic to me since term started, and I'd hate to spoil all those lovely feelings by hexing your little mu– " He paused and turned to Granger with exaggerated politeness. "Muggleborn."

Gregory could feel his scowl deepen.

"I didn't know you had such a soft heart, Draco," Potter said, his voice low. "I'd almost say I was impressed." He was twisted around with one knee propped on the bench, and his face was roughly level with Draco's stomach. Gregory didn't like the way Potter was eyeing Draco at all, not at all. He wondered if Potter was going to go for his wand, and tensed to attack, just in case.

Draco tossed his head. "I'm simply majestic, I can't help it." He fixed Potter with a penetrating eye. "The trophy room at eight, then?"

Potter nodded, his jaw jutting out. "I'll be there."

Draco smirked and turned away with a flourish, leading them out into the streets of Hogsmeade. They were hardly away from the swinging doors of the Three Broomsticks when Vincent, apparently unable to contain himself any longer, burst out: "I can't believe you did that."

Draco half-turned, looking back at them without slowing his stride. "Did what, Vince? Enlighten me."

Gregory looked back and forth between them, confused. "What did he do?"

"You know," Vincent muttered, catching up with Draco, who shrugged.

"Afraid I don't, actually."

Vincent stopped in his tracks, grabbing Draco's arm to halt him as well. "You – you were_ flirting_!" he sputtered. "With _Potter_!"

Draco grinned widely. "Oh, that."

"Wait, you – what?" Gregory asked.

Draco threw back his head and crowed with laughter.

_---_

Severus Snape lingered over his breakfast. He savored his tea (black again, finally, none of that Chinese rot that tasted of grass; Minerva must have finally gotten tired of the house-elves' experimentations with breakfast) and looked over his correspondence. He had neglected it of late, and thus there were three treatises on various intriguing potions innovations, a letter from a rather undesirable social contact that nevertheless had to be answered, and various scholarly missives that were awaiting his attention.

It was too quiet. Normally, Snape looked forward to Hogsmeade weekends, a bit of rest from the endless yipping of overly excited, ill-mannered brats. His rooms were close enough to the Slytherin common room that the bawling of their damned gramophone had assailed him incessantly since it had arrived. He had indulged it with grudging silence, and over the past week and a half he had almost grown accustomed to the vague background noise. Enough so that the utter silence was unsettling, at any rate. Very few of his students had forgone the chance to visit Hogsmeade, and so the dungeons were empty of almost all life.

Severus Snape was very carefully not thinking about the appointment that he would be keeping later that day.

He began to relax once he'd left the castle. Snape was a restless person by nature: discontented in stillness, in waiting. His personality was well suited to the micromanaging of potions brewing, eagerly attuned to the slightest change in colour or scent, and even more alert to the whiff of useful information. Freed from the frustrations of pacing his rooms, his attention still cast stubbornly away from his impending rendezvous, he strode down the high road from the castle with a scowl fixed firmly on his face. He hadn't seen or spoken to anyone that day, and his silence seemed almost of great consequence, a storing of energy both mental and physical in anticipation of the ghosts that would surely need to be confronted. The stillness of the world soothed him, complimented and amplified the stillness in his own mind and by the time he reached the gates and the edges of the wards around Hogwarts, he felt … ready.

He took a long moment to straighten his scarf, pull his cloak tighter around his body and fiddle primly with his gloves. The wind whipped his hair about his face, and he glared into the sky with annoyance. The rain had quit by this time of day, and bare miles away three of Snape's students were sitting down to a well-deserved lunch, courtesy of Gregory Goyle.

The parchment containing his instructions lay folded on the desk within his chambers. They were brief, and separate from the formal goblin letter informing him of the bequeathal. To see the handwriting within had been staggering, an unwelcome intrusion into what had already been a tumultuous term. He had been turning over in his brain what information it contained (and of course, what it didn't contain) ever since. It made no sense – but when had Remus Lupin ever made sense? There was no reason – but when did Remus Lupin have reasons for the things he did? The werewolf had drifted through his life on the pity of others and his own detachment, professing his humanity from one corner of his mouth and mocking the idea from the other.

After that horrible night in the bowels of Voldemort's stronghold, those exhausting hours pacing the corridors of St. Mungo's, snapping at all who approached until someone finally managed to get across the message that his godson was a floor above them and had been discovered naked and battered, wandering the Forbidden Forest two days previous, Snape had seen Lupin exactly three times before the man's death. They had kept in close contact, however, owling each other often with updates on Draco's condition, research on the curse that afflicted him, and – at the end – desperate attempts to stay the rapid deterioration of Remus' health. Separate from the odd relationship that had bloomed between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, apart from the painful reconciliation of Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, Severus Snape had carried on a strangely intimate correspondence with one of his childhood enemies.

It wasn't a friendship. Never that. But …

Snape tossed his head back, trying to clear his mind of such thoughts. The jump was going to be a difficult one, and he needed his concentration.

He appeared close to the house. Before the death of its owner, the anti-apparition wards had been set nearly a kilometer away, but either it had been keyed to Remus' presence or had been shredded by Voldemort's. He surveyed the house with speculative eyes. It was damn cheery, that much was certain: ivy wound up the stone walls and around the neat little windows on the upper level. The storm that had battered Hogwarts was still in full force here in the north, and Snape was quick to cast a water repellant charm around himself while he trudged towards the front door. The house's defences were still in working order; they stopped him a short distance from the house, but released him when he held his wand out.

The door opened quietly under his hand. Somehow, he had imagined that walking into the wolf's den would be more dramatic; even if it was not the wolf's den any longer … it was his own. After more than a month of being vacant, there was a fine layer of dust on the small table on the foyer, and the house had a rather unpleasant smell to it. But it was isolated … away from the dismal Muggle neighborhood he resided in now … although he had never considered …

A soft noise drew his attention. Snape moved forward quietly, wand still in hand, up the stairs. All of the doors along the narrow hallway were closed, but from behind the second on the left came a vague sound, as though someone were softly humming behind it. Snape drew close to the door, and when he flung it open, he knew that he had been justified in keeping his wand ready.

Sirius Black was sitting cross-legged on the wide bed that filled the room, wearing a dirty shirt that was only half buttoned, his feet bare. For a long, shocked moment they only stared at each other, eyes wide, and in a flash Black had leapt to his feet, his wand pointed at Snape.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he rasped. The months since Remus' death didn't seem to have done Black much good, Snape noted; a scraggly beard had appeared on his jaw, and his eyes were sunken.

"I'd ask you the same," Snape hissed. "I was instructed to be here."

The colour drained from Black's face. "You – " he said, his voice cracking. "You got something from Remus – ?"

"The house is mine," Snape said smugly – and then a horrible thought struck him. "Why are you here?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because it was in his letter – I was supposed to be here at 2, he gave me everything –" Black broke off suddenly, looking sickened. "Everything inside the house." He sat heavily down on the bed, his wand hand dropping to his side. For a long moment, they only stared at each other, mirror expressions of disgust and astonishment on their faces. Finally, Black spoke, his tone bitterly amused.  
"That devious son of a _bitch_."


	5. The Calm Before the Storm

**Title: **The Spinning World (Before the Storm)  
**Author: **hans bekhart  
**Rating**: R  
**Summary**: In the sequel to Casualties of War, Harry and Draco's fifth year at Hogwart's has begun, and they must try to rebuild the lives they left behind. In which Draco sets Terry Boot on the case, Theo Nott is mysterious and Harry and Draco are up to no good. (Harry/Draco and others)  
**Author's Notes:** Serious thanks as always to lildove42, thedelphi and seaoftethys for betaing. This chapter has been edited to comply with FF's rating guidelines. The original chapter is rated NC-17 for underage sexual situations and if anyone would prefer to read that version, it is found at my journal (http / www. livejournal . com / users / hansbekhart / 146201 . html .. remove the spaces)/ Reviews and concrit are always appreciated. Apologies for the delay in posting! I recently switched computers and have been unable to upload chapters here or at FictionAlley, due to file types. I'm uploading the next chapter as soon as I get this one up, thanks for your patience!

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Hermione Granger had a theory.

It wasn't very much of a theory, but Hermione Granger wasn't used to being caught without one. She didn't particularly like being confused, or being caught flat-footed, or not knowing what was going on, especially if what was going on concerned one of her best friends.

Draco Malfoy was up to something.

Of course, he was always up to something - usually something nasty and childish and cruel. But this time, Hermione felt sure that things were different. For one thing, he hadn't included his lackeys in whatever he was plotting. Hermione had seen them by themselves more often since term began then when they had all started their first year together. She had actually _watched_ as Malfoy leave their sides to go and speak with Harry, and nobody had thrown punches or hexed anybody.

Harry had been out with Malfoy last night, far past curfew. Hermione knew this because although Harry had taken his Invisibility Cloak with him, he hadn't taken the Marauder's Map. When Harry hadn't returned by curfew, Hermione had gotten Ron and together they had dragged the Map out of Harry's trunk and searched for him. They'd watched the little dots labeled _Harry Potter_ and _Draco Malfoy_ sit for what seemed like ages in an unused Astronomy observatory in the top of the southeast tower until finally _Harry Potter_ returned to Gryffindor and refused to tell them what he had been up to. He had said, quite unfairly, that they wouldn't understand.

Hermione tapped her quill against her bottom lip, the soft feathers tickling her chin. The Arithmancy classroom was quiet save for the scratching on scrolls and the occasional burst of smoke as someone's spell was completed. They had been given private tasks to work on until a quarter of the hour, but of course Hermione had finished hers long ago. Annoyingly, Malfoy had finished his assignment shortly after her and had spent the rest of the time teasing Terry Boot, who sat patiently under the Slytherin's onslaught. There weren't many Slytherins in Arithmancy class; it was made up mostly of Ravenclaws, predictably, but Arithmancy - well, that was Hermione's favourite class.

Her first day in Arithmancy had almost been like discovering magic all over again. It was more than just swishing and flicking, or adding things to a cauldron as though you weren't making anything more ordinary than soup. It was almost like taking a step away from the letters and numbers that she had loved all her life and looking at them as revolutions - the triumph of mankind to understand something so abstract as symbols scratched upon a rock of time. If Hermione had more poetry in her soul, she would have known what stirred her: the understanding that strung together, those symbols were earth-shaking tributes that have changed lives and destroyed monarchies. Ordinary words had that power, but Arithmancy breathed life into them and gave them the power to shift reality beneath one's feet.

Not even Malfoy's presence in the classroom had ever been able to destroy her enthusiasm for the subject. Even if she was a little disappointed that they never wrote many papers for the class - most of the tasks were done in the classroom under Professor Vector's supervision - she had rewarded herself with plenty of books on the magical theory behind Arithmancy, as light reading before bedtime.

She rested her chin on the ball of her hand and shot a sidelong glance at Malfoy and Terry Boot. Their heads were close together as they talked quietly, not wishing to attract Professor Vector's attention. Earlier, before Terry had finished his assignment, Malfoy had carefully charmed each of his fingers a different colour, and the Ravenclaw seemed to be almost admiring the result, gesturing at his spread fingers with his wand. Malfoy put his head down on the desk, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Whatever they were talking about, it was too quiet for her to hear. She didn't think that Malfoy would be sharing his evil plots with a Ravenclaw, anyway.

After month or more at Hogwarts, Malfoy's hair had grown from the close cropped style he had displayed at his arrival - Harry had told them that Malfoy had cut all his hair off himself one day - to a ridiculous fuzzy growth that made his head look a bit like a newborn chick. She had to admit that it made him look a bit less imposing, but in her opinion that only made him more dangerous.

Hermione just didn't understand this strange infatuation that Harry had these days with Draco Malfoy. They hadn't spoken about it much since that disastrous conversation in the Gryffindor common room. Ron had admitted to Hermione that he had tried questioning Harry about it, but had made very little progress. He seemed, strangely enough, willing to let things lie and just trust Harry. If anybody had asked her, she would have thought that no force on earth would be able to convince Ron that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy being friends wasn't a Very Bad Thing, but apparently he had made his mind up. "Harry knows what he's doing," he told her.

Hermione knew better. Boys never knew what they were doing. They bumbled about in a hormonal haze and never thought anything through or applied themselves to anything but Quidditch and chasing girls. She'd keep an eye out for Harry, and keep an eye on Malfoy.

Admittedly, he hadn't been doing anything interesting lately. Malfoy's life was far more dull than Hermione had imagined: he went to classes, he ate lunch with his friends, he did his homework - just like Hermione herself did, only she wasn't so obnoxious, going about it all. The real evil plotting had to be happening in the bowels of the Slytherin dormitories, far from the eyes of spying Gryffindors.

The smile dropped away from Malfoy's face abruptly, and he shook his head at Terry. Stealthily, Hermione tapped her ear with her wand. They weren't due to start practicing voiceless magic for another year, but she had read up on it anyway. Saying the charm out loud just took away the point of eavesdropping on people.

"Pirates," was the first thing she heard, which was very unhelpful.

"There aren't any pirates anymore," was Terry's reply.

"How do you know, Muggle?" Malfoy said, which Hermione thought was rather unfair; Terry was a half-blood. "Maybe we have pirates climbing the walls here and you just don't know about it yet."

"But how did the body disappear, then?" Terry asked. Malfoy and Hermione frowned, nearly in unison: she in confusion, he in agitation.

"How did you know that?" Malfoy asked. "Is that what's supposed to happen? Where did you find it?"

Terry shrugged. "In the Restricted Section."

"How'd you get in there?"

Terry's expression, in profile, was mild. "I asked Professor Flitwick for a pass and he gave me one," he said, as though it was obvious.

"Just like that?" Malfoy asked, disbelieving. "Did you make up some ... curse or something that you had to research for another class?"

"No," Terry said, "I just told him what I was looking for and he wrote out a pass for me. It isn't the first time he's done it."

Malfoy snorted, but his eyes were thoughtful. Or scheming, Hermione thought, and waited intently for Malfoy to ask to borrow the pass. Instead, all he said was, "What did you find out, then?"

"Well, it's hardly ever been done. It's a rare spell, and it's kept under tight control because it bears a strong resemblance to something called a horcrux. It was almost impossible to find out about those, by the way."

"I have complete faith in you," Malfoy said, with a sickeningly insincere smile.

"I should hope so. Who else could you get to research this weird stuff for you?" Terry said.

"Oh, I just know that nobody else would enjoy it as much as you do. Really, I'm doing you a favour."

Terry, oddly, looked mollified. "Anyway, what a horcrux does is it splits off bits of a person's soul and puts it into objects of people. Sounds familiar, right? I tried to find out if it was - well - do you know anything about Muggle physics? There's this really fantastic theory of time that's um, it's like throwing a rock at a tree and according to that -"

"Is there a point, Boot?"

Terry's forehead creased appealingly. "Just that I wanted to know whether a horcrux split your soul in half every time you made one, or whether it broke off in specified amounts."

Hermione had always approved of Terry. He was a real Ravenclaw, not like that silly Marietta Edgecombe or Cho Chang, who was even sillier. Ravenclaws were not all brilliant students; they were distinguished mostly by an unwillingness to leave the sanctity of their own thoughts - whether those thoughts were composed of spells, romantic fantasies or Crumple Horned Snorchbacks. Terry was one of the first sort, always haring off after tangents and connected ideas, rarely turning in his papers on time but always bubbling over with an eagerness to explain that he had found a footnote while doing tertiary research that had suddenly shed light on, perhaps, the last assignment that he had failed to turn in on time. Professor Flitwick indulged this with delight, but it drove most of the other professors mad.

"Since they're rather closely related, at least in theory, even though officially the Tutela charm is supposed to be like a Patronus, I wanted to know whether all of Professor Lupin's soul had gone into you and Potter or whether it was only parts of it."

Unexpectedly, Malfoy looked horrified. Well, good. Hermione had felt rather horrified herself at the thought of gentle, kind Professor Lupin being stuck inside a cockroach like Malfoy.

"But what does it have to do with a Patronus?" he asked.

Terry shuffled papers around in his book bag, pulling one out. Hermione shifted on her seat, intrigued. Harry had been vague with his descriptions of what he had called the red wolf, and when Hermione had tried to question him further, he had only put her off.

"You said it looked like a Patronus, right, except more red than ghostly? Oh - more solid than a corporeal Patronus. Can you cast one? Oh, ok. But have you tried? I've tried but - ok, all right. Sticking to the point."

There was a brief interruption as Professor Vector swooped in among them, checking to see how everyone was doing. Most of the class was still puzzling over their parchments. Vector bent neatly over Malfoy and Terry, his reedy voice amplified painfully in Hermione's ear. His wand moved quickly over each of their parchments, correcting minor details until he pronounced their work excellent and moved on. He winked at Hermione as he passed her desk, sparing a rare smile.

Hermione took a fresh scroll from her book bag, scribbling short nonsense to herself while she carefully avoided looking at Malfoy or Terry. They had resumed speaking once Vector's attention had passed, their voices pitched low and heads drawn together.

"The Tutela charm works independently from the person or object it's placed in, like a horcrux does. So there is a vestigial part of the original personality inside the host, but only certain parts, because the person has to die before the Tutela charm takes effect. So it's not a spell designed to help people live forever, as I think the horcrux kind of is. It's a way to protect certain things that are left behind. It's almost always a person but there was one incident that I read about where it was this woman's house. Every time her grandchildren tried to tear the place down, this enormous cat came out and attacked them. Caused quite a bit of trouble, I imagine."

"Can these pieces of the soul be removed?" Malfoy asked, ignoring the anecdote. "From the - host, that is. Can they be taken out and put inside a new body?"

There was a long moment of silence, presumably while Terry pondered the question. Hermione's quill hovered uncertainly over her parchment, waiting.

"I don't know," he said finally. "You want me to look some more? If I can find something on the origin of the Tutela charm or anything about those damn horcruxes, I might be able to understand the principles of the spell better."

Hermione chanced a glance in the direction of the two boys. Most of Malfoy's face had been hidden behind Terry, but now he was leaning back in his seat, staring thoughtfully at Terry with a rather odd expression on his normally haughty face. "Yeah," he said. "All right. I bet you were planning on doing it anyway, though."

Terry laughed. "Well - yeah, I was. It's fascinating stuff! I mean, do you think that the Tutela charm is the total opposite of a horcrux because it requires sacrifice on the part of the caster rather than the caster murdering someone else? And if it is, then how does the power of love split a person's soul? Do you think it does the same damage as if you split it for selfish reasons? I just don't know. It's insane to think about it all."

Malfoy's eyebrows were raised skeptically, his mouth twisted into a smirk. "You're almost as bad as Granger," he said. Hermione's breath caught uncomfortably, startled to hear her name mentioned, and even more so when Terry shook his head.

"Hermione's nice, but she doesn't ever study things just because she wants to know. Everything has to have a bloody reason."

Malfoy snorted. "Figures it was Krum who took her to Ball last term. He's used to frigid things."

Terry frowned and made some sort of reproving remark, but Hermione didn't hear it. Her wand had flown to her ear instinctively, and Malfoy's awful voice dropped to the whisper that it had been spoken in, inaudible to her burning ears. She stared at the scroll on the desk and at the quill in her hand and didn't try to listen to any other conversations for the rest of class.

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"Good heavens," Snape said, rummaging through the cabinets. "There are nearly as many tea cups in this house as there are books." He paused to consider a particularly horrid monstrosity in the shape of a walrus, frowning. "And yet not a single. One. Matches."

"You're not having any tea," Sirius said roughly.

Snape arched an eyebrow at him. "And why not, Black? It is _my_ tea, after all. This is _my_ house. I fail to see where your opinions have any relevance in the matter."

"It isn't your tea," Sirius said. "It's Remus' tea and he's given it to me. And you can't have any."

"Isn't there any proper tea in this house?" Snape said, ignoring Sirius. "All of these boxes are in Chinese, curse it."

Sirius yanked the box of tea out of Snape's hand. "That's Pu-erh and you can't have any. Drink out of the pond if you're thirsty. I think those cows have been pissing in it, which might suit you."

They stood nearly nose-to-nose, snarling at each other, in the placid comfort of what had been, up until two weeks previous, Remus Lupin's kitchen. Two weeks ago, it had been willed to one Severus Snape, Potions Master of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. The house belonged to Snape, but even in death Remus' hand was felt; everything inside the house belonged to Sirius Black, escaped convict and one-time lover of the previous owner. It was not a situation that boded well.

Although Snape had (graciously, and with constant reminders) allowed Sirius to stay in the Farmhouse while he sorted through his new belongings, he had been visiting during the weekends and once or twice during his free periods, as though he had nothing better to do with his spare time than come and annoy Sirius. It was entirely possible that he didn't; he wasn't putting much effort into moving his own property into the Farmhouse or redecorating it to suit his tastes. He followed Sirius from room to room and fingered precious items until Sirius snapped. This was not a one-sided fight, of course; after a particularly vitriolic fight, Sirius attempted during the night to remove all of the inner walls of the house and the south end of the foundations. He had been working his way through Remus' liquor cabinet and so accomplished only the removal of the walls on the second floor before settling in the den before the fire for some nice self-pity and falling asleep there.

"It is tea time," Snape said, his voice silky. "Don't forget your manners, Black. Or have you really reverted to savagery so quickly without the werewolf's calming influence?"

"Why don't you use his name, you bastard?" Sirius hissed. "It's the least you owe him. Now you don't have to live among your own filthy kind."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Do you mean Spinner's End? What an ... enlightened way to refer to Muggles."

The fragile box of tea was crushed between Sirius' fingers. He dropped it at Snape's feet and leaned in close to the other man, who stood his ground with a haughty expression. "You don't _deserve_ to step foot in this house," he said. He stalked from the kitchen. Snape could hear Sirius fling himself onto the monstrosity that Lupin had called a couch. The springs, which should have expired painfully long ago, squeaked restlessly for a while. Snape retrieved the kettle from where it had been stored in the very back of a cabinet and filled it with water. He tapped it with his wand and watched steam pour from its mouth with a satisfied smile. He was adding loose tealeaves to his cup (he had left the Pu-erh on the floor where it had landed, and picked the tea that smelled the most like black) when Sirius stomped back into the kitchen and thumped down at the kitchen table. Snape was privately surprised that the chair didn't collapse into kindling under the man's weight. Sirius' grey eyes fixed on Snape's but said nothing.

"Anything you would like to share with the class, Mr. Black?" Snape asked softly.

"No," Sirius said roughly. "I'm waiting for you to leave."

They stared at each other in taut silence. Snape calmly sipped his tea. Sirius folded his hands on the table. The clock in the hall chimed the hour. Sirius picked dirt out of his fingernails and flicked it towards Snape. Outside, a mournful lowing approached the house, and then there was the pound of tiny hooves on the grass as it ran away. When the clock struck the half-hour, the quiet seemed nearly companionable. Their minds wandered to separate subjects, the reason for their silence pushed to the back of their minds, unimportant. Snape thought of Draco, who seemed more cheerful these days but still would not speak to him.

In truth, Snape had not tried to reach Draco since that troubling detention some weeks earlier. He saw the white-blond head at meals, bent over a steaming cauldron, but each time he remembered that flash of grey eyes his mind drifted, oddly, to the memory that had all but been flung out at him. The sound of the tide upon the rocks, and the warmth of Remus Lupin's body beside him. The trust that was so obvious even in the glimpse he had caught, a trust for an adult that he wouldn't have thought Draco capable of, not anymore. It hurt. It hurt that his godson had trusted the werewolf more than Snape. It hurt to know that the boy was right in feeling that way. It wasn't a conscious thought, but somewhere in the tunnels of his brain he knew without having to question that Lupin had been a far better choice to look after Draco, to pull him from the dark places that genetics and circumstances had created for him. Snape could not teach with gentle nurturing and encouragement; he excelled at pushing students, forcing them to places they had never thought they could go, usually in tears. He liked teaching, in a way, and he liked being head of Slytherin House, full of students that needed no encouragement or hugs but instead clamoured for his favour and pushed themselves all the harder to impress him. It was the currency that Snape dealt in, and in his own House at least, the students were well paid.

He wouldn't coddle Draco. He didn't think that that was what Draco needed. It had been the boy's awe of Lucius that had achieved high marks, not the constant flow of presents from Narcissa.

Snape bent his head and stared into his teacup. At first they had tried to hold the other's gaze, daring each other to be the first to break away, but after a time it had ceased to matter. The surface of the tea was slightly oily, and it tasted nothing like black tea but was drinkable.

He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Draco's memory. The smell of salt had haunted him through his classes and seemed to fill his quiet rooms. The sound of the waves pounding against the shore drowned out the music of that silly gramophone that echoed throughout the dungeons. He had probed the memory as though it was a sore tooth, and the ache had only increased.

He raised his eyes surreptitiously. Sirius' chin was propped on his fist, and his eyes were far away. There were curls of some waxy substance around his other hand where he had been digging little furrows into the surface of the table. And he was thinking about Lupin. The werewolf's presence hovered around Black's head like eddies of smoke, or tea. Snape rose and poured himself another cup. Black's eyes followed him as he moved from one corner of the kitchen to the other and then flickered back down to his fingernails. He set to work clumsily picking them clean once more, but Snape's gaze never wavered.

The thought wormed itself slowly through Snape's brain. It didn't come upon him all at once; the way letters fall suddenly in line when one is playing word games. It crept across his consciousness like the steam of the teacup that bathed his face, and when Black raised his weary eyes to stare back at Snape, Snape slipped in.

It was easier to do than he'd have thought. They didn't teach Occlumency at Hogwarts and although Lupin had apparently, at some point in his doubtlessly colourful travels, become quite an accomplished Legilmens, the skill set seemed to have escaped Black's notice. His eyes - grey, like most of the Black family - didn't flicker as Snape peeled away the crude defenses around his mind, likely unconscious barriers erected in childhood.

There was anger. Snape had expected that. It was huge and without direction, spilling out of the confines of memory and feeling, infecting everything it touched. The pain that lay beneath it was raw and bloody, nearly animal-like. Black's confused fury only thinly covered it, and it was only the work of a moment to find what he was looking for.

Gone were the cheerful slats of sunlight that stretched across the worn surfaces of Lupin's kitchen. Moonlight burned it away, leaching all colours but the deepest from sight. There was the smell of something sweet in the air - Snape's long, skillful nose twitched and identified it as cardamom and cinnamon. Softly, as though he was hearing it through a closed door at the end of a hallway, a gramophone was bawling out a thumping bass line. He turned his head to the left and there - beside the sink, sleeves rolled up as though he had been doing the dishes by hand - was Remus Lupin, and there, approaching with a hungry, expectant look on his handsome face, was Sirius Black. Lupin turned, one shoulder rising as Black's fingers skated across it, his neck arching and his eyes sliding closed.

Severus Snape closed his eyes and let the memories come.

-

-

Water swirled around Draco's shoulders, nearly invisible through the steam that had seeped through the room. Draco let out a long, luxurious sigh, and Harry laughed softly. Draco's elbow was propped up on the side of the long pool, white hairs standing up indignantly from his skin, still damp. The other hand, his usable hand, was wrapped around Harry's neck, keeping the other boy in close. Harry's hands pushed and rubbed along Draco's back, knuckles bumping against the tile behind it. Their legs tangled together in the water, lazily, calves brushing ankles, skin sliding against skin. They kissed with open, soft mouths.

Harry's Invisibility Cloak lay close to the door, and Draco's winter cloak lay crumpled next to it. The trail of garments led to the wall that Draco had pushed Harry up against, knocking the Gryffindor's head up against it in his rush. Afterwards, they had slipped into the pool and played a bit with the taps, splashing in the water until their wrestling brought them closer and closer together.

"How did you get the password?" Harry asked, drawing his mouth over the line of Draco's collarbone.

"Theo gave it to me," Draco said, drawing in a sharp breath.

He pulled Harry up by the hair and kissed him thoroughly. It was only after several breathless minutes that Harry pulled away and said, in a rather dazed voice, "Theo who?"

Draco gave him a dirty look and shoved him lightly away. "Theo Nott," he drawled. "You know, the 'stringy boy.' The one you've been in classes with for five straight years."

Harry treaded water, frowning. The tips of his toes scraped the bottom of the pool with every stroke. "Oh," he said.

" 'Oh,'" Draco mimicked. "Oh _what_, Potter?"

Harry shrugged. "Are you - I dunno. I mean. Are you friends with him?"

Draco tilted his head to one side. Harry flushed and kicked towards the general direction of the taps, turning on the first one and wincing at the flowery suds that poured out. "Of course I am," Draco said slowly, his pale eyes tracking Harry's movements with amusement. "We've been friends since forever. Stop fussing with that, Harry."

Harry's hands jerked away from the tap they had been toying with. He frowned, and then, as though he had decided something, set his jaw and swam back to Draco. He wrapped his arms back around Draco's thin shoulders, ignoring the amused look on the other boy's face. He leaned forward before Draco could make some comment that was bound to be irritating. When they had first come to the Prefect's bath, Draco had tasted of pumpkin juice, but the last traces of whatever he had eaten after dinner had long since vanished. He was warm and faintly sweet and, irritatingly enough, the corners of his mouth were still curved in a smirk.

"You're jealous," Draco said smugly. "So jealous. I can smell it on you. Jealous of Theo. You should be jealous. He's quite fit, isn't he?"

"Shut up," Harry said.

"Make me," was the reply.

So Harry did. The mermaid looked on with interest. Water sloshed up the side of the pool and over, and Draco's quiet laughter was cut off with a gasp.

Their noses bumped and a nervous smile twitched on Draco's face. Harry swallowed and reached down to pull Draco's leg over his hip. Draco's fingers clenched on the side of the pool, slipping a bit. Harry's eyes were wide, questioning. Draco nodded, the motion contained in just the barest shake of his head and he leaned forward once again. Their mouths slid together and Draco's other hand closed around his forearm, gripping tightly. Their teeth clacked together.

They swam for some time, afterwards. Draco insisted on washing and went methodically through each tap until he found his favourite. Harry paddled from end to end, trying out different strokes that he vaguely remembered from Dudley's swimming lessons. They talked of quiet things like homework and O.W.L.s and Sirius. Harry was the first to leave the pool to find the biggest, fluffiest towels that he could find. He gave a hand to Draco out of the water and wrapped one around both of them. Draco grabbed the other and threw the entire thing over Harry's head, briskly drying his hair before pulling it off and declaring that it didn't look any worse than normal.

It was far past curfew by the time they eased out of the prefects' bath and headed towards the Slytherin dorms, the Invisibility Cloak draped over both of them. Draco had been delighted to get to play with the Cloak, and hadn't stopped nagging Harry about borrowing it by the time they reached the stone wall that hid the entrance to the dorms.

"You're getting me in trouble," Draco said, ducking out from under the Cloak. Harry pulled it off his shoulders as well, bunching it up in one hand.

"Yeah, me too," he said. "Ron and Hermione still hate you."

Draco sneered. "As if I care about their opinion of me. Everyone in Slytherin thinks you're a wanker."

Harry shrugged. "Is that what you think?"

"No," Draco said thoughtfully. He snagged Harry's collar and hauled him in close. "I do think you're a - great - big - prat, though." He punctuated each word with a hard kiss.

"Oh," Harry said. "That's alright, then. Same to you."

There was a discreet cough behind them. Harry jerked away, startled, and came face to face with a rather stringy boy with a long, rabbity face wrapped up in Slytherin colours. "Oh," Draco said casually. "Hi, Theo. Nice night, isn't it?" One hand came and wrapped around Harry's, holding him in place. "Some big bad Gryffindor tricked me into breaking curfew. Sorry."

"Draco, I'm not even going to ask you what you were doing out," Nott said. His voice was rather pained, and he glanced toward their intertwined fingers with a pointed frown. "Are you going in now?"

"Yes," Draco answered sweetly. "Of course."

"Five points from Gryffindor for breaking curfew, Potter," Nott said.

Draco cleared his throat meaningfully. Harry looked to him, relieved, but all that Draco said was, "We're trailing Gryffindor a bit in House points, aren't we?"

"Good point," Nott said. "Ten points from Gryffindor, then. Draco, go to sleep. You look like you could use it." He strode away.

"I can't believe you," Harry said slowly, rounding on Draco. "You are such an arsehole."

"What?" Draco said, his eyes wide. "We _are_ a bit behind."

Harry pushed him back against the wall, fingers wrapped around the sharp bones of his shoulders. He leaned in close. "You are an arsehole."

Draco's only response was a muffled, pleased noise. His entire body arched into Harry's as the other boy pulled away, his eyes lidded. "Mm," he said.

"Good night," Harry whispered. He dropped one last, lingering kiss on Draco's mouth and disappeared in a swirl of fabric. He stood still for a long moment, grinning giddily when Draco leaned back against the stone wall, a foolish smile twisting his mouth. He didn't say anything and he made no sudden movements, but his grey eyes were clear and filled with an emotion that Harry didn't think he'd ever seen before. At last, Draco sighed and let himself into the Slytherin dorms.

Harry set his feet towards Gryffindor tower, feeling light and stupid and warm all over. Under the Cloak, everything smelled like the shampoo that Draco had finally settled on. Harry knew he'd be in trouble if he came across Mrs. Norris, but couldn't help bringing the cloth to his face and inhaling deeply. _You are such a pervert_, said a voice in his mind. It sounded like Draco. Harry smothered a laugh and hurried on.

He drew up short when he spotted a figure leaning quietly against one of the tall banisters opposite the Great Hall. The only light came from the torches that were still lit in the Great Hall, sprawling carelessly through a crack in the doors. It illuminated the hands and legs of whoever it was but their face was in deep shadow. Quietly, Harry crept forward. The quickest way to the tower was up those stairs, and he'd felt as though he'd pressed his luck enough. As he was drawing near the stairs, the figure stirred uneasily. It didn't seem to notice him, however, and made no further movement until Harry was nearly past it.

He glanced over, his foot hovering above the stair, and recognised the tall figure as Theo Nott, his long legs drawn up close to his chest, his hands folded neatly on his knees. His head rested against the banister and his shoulders were slumped. Harry set his foot down but didn't move any further. He didn't know Nott at all; he had known vaguely that the boy was a crony of Draco's because he was often the person that Draco showed off for, trotted out those stupid imitations of people for. The Notts were family friends, he knew; close enough that Draco hadn't thought anything was out of the ordinary when his father had suggested dinner there. But even to members of his House, Nott seemed aloof, calculating. Hermione had confessed a complete lack of knowledge about him.

Harry studied Nott's face closely. He wasn't a handsome boy and Harry could understand why Draco had laughed at his jealousy. His eyes were long and narrow and his mouth was thin. Harry had caught a glimpse of overlong teeth during his conversation with Draco, and in the low light he looked tired and unhappy.

But the other Slytherins always seemed to look up to him, Harry thought. He could remember even Draco, in second year, shutting up and listening to Nott in the same way that he submitted to a dressing down from the older students.

Harry shook his head. He was cold and bed sounded awfully good. He was being an idiot, standing around and watching Theo Nott feel sorry for himself. What did he care if Nott was jealous or upset? Served him right, really.

He took light, quick steps up the staircase, leaving Nott behind.

-

-

Daphne Greengrass had been working on her homework when Gregory Goyle rumbled in and flung himself onto the couch across from her, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl across his face. Theo, who had been curled deep in one of the armchairs with his legs thrown over the side, sat up, his eyebrows raised. Vincent trudged in behind Gregory and sat down a little more carefully, a strangely defeated expression on his face. The two boys stared off in separate directions, Vincent's craggy chin resting on his wide fist, Gregory's slitted eyes made more piggish by his glare. Tracey and Daphne exchanged glances.

"Well?" Tracey said at last. "What's wrong?"

Vincent and Gregory looked at each other and then away. Vincent settled in more firmly but Gregory burst out with, "I hate Professor Umbridge!"

"Then what's your problem?" Millicent asked Vincent. "Did you both get detention or something?"

Vincent shook his head, looking toward the parchment that stuck out from both ends of his fist. "Got a letter from home," he said. The Slytherins exchanged knowing glances and ducked their heads. Theo huffed and slumped back into his chair, staring pensively into the fire.

The thought of their parents had loomed large and uncomfortable in the minds of Draco and Pansy's friends, indeed in the minds of most of Slytherin's students. Not all of them came from families who supported Voldemort, either openly or surreptitiously, and there were a few half bloods and even two Muggleborn students that lived in the dungeons. The pureblood students had agreed with their parents on the issues of Muggles in wizarding society and natural pureblood supremacy in the way that children usually do. Later, they had laughed at Draco's ridiculous imitations of Muggles and their strange way of dressing, their bizarre sounding jobs: plumber, secretary, CEO. The two Muggle blokes, one of whom was in his sixth year and the other in his second, were generally considered all right, if a little backwards, even if they had never been able to satisfactorily explain such simple things as ballpoint pens or this interknit thing that the other students had heard about. But after all, they weren't really _Muggles_.

Some of the pureblooded children in Slytherin, Draco included, had never actually met a Muggle before coming to Hogwarts. Muggles were characters in comics that said very strange things, or they were dim and menacing figures that adults discussed over dinner. Barring Muggleborn students, some Slytherins still had yet to meet their first Muggle, or have a conversation with one. Vincent Crabbe had once been asked for directions by a Muggle in Salisbury and had actually run away from it, for which he had been endlessly teased.

"I don't get it," Gregory fretted. "I just don't get it. How're we supposed to get the spell if we can't practice it first? I hate writing these stupid papers. It sucks and it's too hard."

"Is that from your dad?" Theo asked. When Vincent nodded, he held out his hand. Vincent handed the parchment over without looking at his housemate, sighing deeply. Theo's narrow eyes scanned quickly over the paper and glanced up at Vincent quickly. He passed the paper to Daphne, and it made its way around the table that way.

"I don't see what's so bad," Daphne said slowly, when the letter reached Vincent again. "It's just about schools and your mum, isn't it?

"I asked him," Vincent said, his eyes dull. "About it. You know. About what happened that night. If - you know. And he didn't answer that part. Didn't say anything at all about what he did or. You know. Didn't do."

Daphne and Tracey glanced to each other and then back down to their parchments. "I didn't even ask," Theo said. "I don't want to know."

"How could you not want to know?" Millicent grumbled. Neither boy replied.

Daphne returned to her homework. She had never had much patience for Gregory, but he was right; Defense Against the Dark Arts was much harder now that they couldn't practice the spellwork that they were being taught. Professor Umbridge had told them that now that Voldemort was back, they needed to put their trust in the Ministry, but Daphne didn't like it, not at all. After a while Gregory came and sat next to her, laying his schoolwork out and frowning hard at it, as though it would solve itself. She remembered suddenly that it had been Pansy who always helped him with his schoolwork; Draco had been too impatient. She swallowed hard and offered Gregory her help.

It wasn't as though they suddenly loved Muggles, or that they suddenly wanted to join Dumbledore and the side of Light. Rather, it was like a great creeping suspicion that had come upon them all: that there were things that they had believed in that were not only futile (secretly, in their innermost hearts, many of them believed that Dumbledore and Harry Potter would snatch victory from Voldemort as easily as they had snatched the House Cup from them in first year.) but inherently wrong as well. It was a mute, helpless sort of feeling, difficult to discuss; there wasn't anyone to discuss it with except among themselves. Their parents, whose role in the rape of two of their classmates - and the murder of one - was still unclear for some of them, were out of the question. The students in other Houses had always viewed Slytherin with suspicion, as though a dark wizard (usually assumed to be Draco in Gryffindor circles, although older Hufflepuffs had been laying money on Flint for years) could pop out of the dungeons at any time. Slytherin, responding to their role as the Evil House, became as tribal and enclosed as Hufflepuff and created elaborate unspoken hierarchies within their ranks, which rarely included outsiders.

Daphne felt at times that she was the sole voice for Slytherin. Not the shining example of a Slytherin student, of course, but one of the few with friends in other Houses who shared with those friends the goings on of Slytherin. Orla Quirke, Su Li and Mandy Brocklehurst knew all about Draco's long, unexplained disappearances and Theo's withdrawal. They had been hearing gossip from Pansy for years and she was glad to be able to talk about all of it. She was aware that some of her Housemates frowned upon her airing their dirty linen; nowhere but in Slytherin was the distinction between Our Own and Not Our Own so clear. She paid no attention, however; Pansy had assembled her little gang of girls years ago and nobody had ever said anything then. The fact that their situation was far more dire than the question of who was going out with whom, escaped Daphne's notice.

When Vincent spoke, it was so quiet that Daphne wasn't sure if he meant anyone else to hear it. "I don't know what to do," he muttered, his eyes on the fire. Daphne and Gregory looked up, quills still. "What if he wants me to be a part of that?"

Comforting words deserted her and one by one, they all looked away, unable to find an answer for anyone.

-

-

The first clue was a small note, a bit of torn parchment. It was tucked underneath Harry's glasses in the morning, and he picked it up with some puzzlement. It was unsigned and printed with a tidy hand: _I have a surprise for you tonight._

Harry smiled and tucked the note into his pajama pocket. He recognised Draco's handwriting easily, having received more than one mocking note from him, over the years. In the past a little cartoon of Harry befalling some grievous bodily harm had often accompanied them. The most thought that he'd ever given to it was that Malfoy wasn't much of an artist, but as he dressed and showered the thought of those silly notes ("Like love letters," Ron had said scornfully. "He should put some perfume on it or something.") loomed large and bright in his thoughts. He was smiling when he went down to breakfast with Ron, Dean and Neville.

While he was eating breakfast, another note appeared on the center of his plate, right on top of a piece of buttered toast that he was about to heap jam on. He snatched it up quickly and wiped the butter off of it to read: _Good little Gryffindors deserve rewards. What's your spirit of adventure like these days?_

Harry's eyes flew over to the Slytherin table, but Draco's back was turned towards him. He pushed the note into his pocket and tried to ignore the curious stares around him.

There was a third note tucked between the pages of his Potions textbook, and a fourth beneath a particularly vile slug. He could feel Snape's evil eye resting upon his bowed head as he smoothed the notes out on his knee to read them. Draco didn't look over, but Harry could see the edges of a badly hidden smirk curling his mouth. He just thought he was so clever, didn't he? Harry knew how to fix that.

Harry was the first to leave the Potions classroom, stuffing his books hurriedly into his bag and waving a vague hand at Ron. Lunch came after their gruelling session of double Potions, but Harry passed up two corridors and dodged down the third, listening carefully as he pressed himself against the wall.

He heard Draco's voice coming down the hall, lifted high in some sort of complaint. Draco's goons usually walked on either side of him, but the first fifteen minutes of class had seen an exploded cauldron and Crabbe sprouting eyes and noses all over his body, so Draco was unprotected on one side. Harry chose the moment carefully.

He shot out of the corridor and slammed into Draco, staggering him into Goyle's expansive side. Draco whirled instantly, his wand out, before he saw what had hit him. A small, puzzled frown crossed his face.

"Watch where you're going, Malfoy," Harry challenged. The confusion cleared up instantly from Draco's eyes.

"Didn't those Muggles teach you how to walk straight?" he demanded. "Although I suppose if they couldn't teach you how to dress yourself, walking must have simply been beyond you."

"Yeah?" Harry breathed. "I've been taught to throw a pretty good hex in the last few years. You want to see?"

A small crowd had gathered around them and took note of the haughty toss of Draco's head. "This shouldn't take more than a minute," he said to Goyle. "I'll see you for lunch after I've finished with this upstart." He stalked off down the corridor without waiting to see if Harry followed. By the time they reached a disused classroom, Draco had dissolved into giggles.

"I don't think that fooled anybody," he said.

Harry shrugged, pulling the door shut behind them. "I dunno. I thought it was pretty clever."

"You would," Draco said loftily, and pinned him against the door. "You are a sad little boy," he said, reaching through Harry's robes to find the fly of his trousers. "Are you trying to outdo me?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," Harry said, finding the sharp planes of Draco's hips to hold onto.

"It won't work," Draco replied and sank to his knees.

It wasn't until Divination that Harry found the final note, stuffed into the front pocket of his trousers.

_Take the corridor to the kitchens and turn left at the painting of the ocean. Go into the second door on your left. 9 o'clock. See you there._

_Draco_


	6. Silhouette of the Sun

**Title:** The Spinning World: Silhouette of the Sun  
**Author: **hans bekhart  
**Rating: **R  
**Summary: **In the sequel to _Casualties of War, _Harry and Draco's fifth year at Hogwarts has begun, and they must try to rebuild the lives they used to lead. In which Hufflepuffs pick fights, Snape finds comfort in the memories of others, and Harry makes a big mistake. (Harry/Draco, Remus/Sirius, others)  
**Notes: **Always thanks to my betas, thedelphi, lildove42, seaoftethys and especially lilchickadee who continues to beat me mercilessly into making this story better. This chapter has been edited to comply with rating policy. The original chapter was rated NC-17 for explict sexual content. If anybody's interested, it can be found here: ( http / hansbekhart . livejournal . com / 156671 . html , just take out the spaces).

-

-

-

It began, innocently enough, with a pair of gloves. It was snowing, and the fifth year Slytherins had Divination right after breakfast. Although Professor Trelawney kept the classroom warmer than was really comfortable, the corridors leading up to her tower were draughty and cold. Her students had begun to look like moulting birds once they stepped into the perfumed chambers, shedding layers and scarves even before they sat down at their tables.

Draco had been looking for his gloves since getting dressed. He had foregone a shower but had been fussing about his gloves for some time, without heeding the ridicule of his roommates. Blaise, never one to bother with the crises of others, was the first to head up to breakfast, and the rest followed at their own paces, leaving Draco mostly wedged beneath the bed, searching among the dust bunnies for the lost items.

It was Gregory who found him, running back to the dorms before class began for his forgotten Divination homework. He hesitated when he heard a muted, panicked rush of breath. "Hello?" he called, looking around nervously. He trusted the boys of his year well enough not to leave some sort of creature loose that could bite his toes off, but he never knew about the seventh years – who could get away with nearly anything – or the first years – who hadn't quite learned their places yet.

A blond head surfaced behind Draco's bed, glared at him and then turned away. Gregory followed, padding around the bed to find Draco sitting very still on the floor, his knees pulled up to his chest. He didn't look at Gregory as he sat down on the bed.

"Draco?" Greg asked, tentatively. "You're missing breakfast. Class is gonna start really soon, too." Draco shook his head but made no other comment. There was a mark high up on his neck, beneath his ear, and Gregory wanted to ask what had happened before he remembered how late it had been before he had heard Draco return to the dorms last night. "Are you alright?"

"I can't find my gloves," Draco muttered.

Gregory scratched at his throat, puzzled. "Yeah, I saw you looking for 'em earlier … but why weren't you at breakfast? Aren't you hungry?"

Draco shook his head again and drew his knees closer to his body. "No," he said. "I can't find my gloves."

"Oh," Gregory said, mystified. "Do you really need them?"

Draco nodded, his face a picture of misery. He held his hands out in front of himself, peering at the scars that decorated them, his lips closed tight around all of the things that Greg wasn't quite bright enough to guess at. Even with Remus, who had been there during those first few days out of St. Mungo's, it had been hard for Draco to put a name to what had happened to him, or the emotions that had struggled their way through his brain.

It had been getting harder and harder for Draco to pretend, even to himself, that he was fine. Since the start of term, he had been trying to bully himself into mental health, frustrated when he wasn't able to stop memories surfacing during class, wasn't able to shovel food in his mouth and ignore the noise in the Great Hall, wasn't able to ignore the push of students through the halls. Since arriving at Hogwarts, he had been unable to remember how he was expected to behave around his friends and he had taken to guessing, carefully watching those around him for cues.

Everyone else had taken gloves. Even Gregory's ham-like fists were covered with threadbare brown wool. The tips of one of his fingers, the nail bitten down to the quick, showed through the finger of the glove, a bright contrast to the black robes underneath it. And so Draco's panic had grown.

Sitting on the floor, the stone cold underneath his trousers without his winter robes to shield him, Draco had forgotten the actual reasons for the horror and shame that kept his limbs locked tight. The thought of his gloves had rolled through his head and vanished, leaving the vague sense of frustration that if he knew what he was upset about, he'd be able to solve it. Unable to remember, he was unable to explain, and so they sat in contemplative silence.

Greg picked at the loose threads of his gloves and watched Draco's head shift from side to side. He wondered if maybe it would help if he hugged Draco or something, or maybe if Vincent would know better. He was glad that it had been him rather than Theo -- who had been acting strangely towards Draco lately -- or Blaise who had found Draco. Gregory couldn't articulate his thoughts as clearly as his friends, but he knew one thing: it was up to him and Vincent to take care of Draco. More than that, it was what was _right_. They'd been Draco's friends longer than anyone, and he'd always relied on them to help carry out whatever weird plan came into his head. They had cackled underneath those huge cloaks he'd dug out, carrying him on their shoulders as they'd pretended to be Dementors; they'd listened to him scheme against Potter for hours.

It was only right that it should be them who took care of Draco now, when he needed real friends, not stupid Gryffindors like Potter, who hadn't even liked Draco last term.

"Want me to bring you some food, Draco?" Gregory asked. Draco shook his head. Gregory hesitated, and then asked, "Want me to stay with you for a while?"

Draco nodded, and Gregory nodded as well, even though Draco wasn't looking at him. Draco wanted him to stay, so he'd stay.

-

-

As days wore on, it wasn't simply Draco's mind that was giving him trouble. Hogwarts hadn't heard much more than the scant details of the death of a Slytherin girl; they knew that Pansy Parkinson had been burned to death by You-Know-Who, and that he had put some sort of hex on Draco Malfoy that resulted in his new appearance, but the true story was slow to filter out of Slytherin. Rumors trickled down from Slytherin to Ravenclaw, from Ravenclaw to Hufflepuff and Gryffindor; chief among the concern of the student body was the remarkable number of absences from the fifth year Slytherin class, and the notable lack of detentions handed out on their behalf.

Harry, as oblivious as he normally was to the feelings of people around him, didn't see the angry pride on the faces of the Slytherins. He missed the mutinous glares they got in return. When he met with Draco in deserted classrooms in the dead of night, the other boy never mentioned that angry jeers were exchanged in the halls or that sometimes all he could smell or see was wet leaves in an ancient forest and the rot of blackened flesh.

And so to Harry, at least, what happened next was a surprise.

It started with a Hufflepuff by the name of Stebbins, who was in his sixth year. Disgruntled with a poor mark on his day's potion, he bumped hard into Draco Malfoy, who was on his way to Snape's class. Draco snarled and pushed back.

"Watch where you're going," he sneered.

"You watch out," Stebbins returned, shoving Draco back. "You get tired of skiving all the time? Snape finally -- "

That was as far as he got before Vincent Crabbe punched him in the mouth.

Stebbins' friends leapt to his aid as quickly as Vincent had done, and when Snape stormed out of his classroom to see what all of the noise was about, he was greeted by ragged chaos. Ties torn, robes dirtied, noses bloodied; Goyle didn't stop hitting the Hufflepuff he had in a headlock until Snape began to shout.

Draco and Stebbins, however, didn't even pause. They were on the ground, Draco pinned against the stone with his clawed hands scrabbling around Stebbins' neck. Stebbins' robes covered both of their bodies like the wings of a bird, Draco's furious kicking catching on the hem and jerking Stebbins' head back. It was a ludicrous fight made no less absurd by their red faces and the silent way that the other students avoided looking at them as Snape grabbed their hoods and pulled them bodily to their feet.

Snape eyed Stebbins -- normally an easygoing boy, quick to accept even Snape's harsh instruction -- and then Draco, whose eyes were fixed somewhere around Snape's collar.

"How did this happen?" Snape demanded.

Neither answered. Stebbins, who outweighed Draco by nearly two stone and had come off the clear victor, cleared his throat and stared at the floor. Draco brushed ineffectually at his bloody nose.

"It was me, sir," mumbled an unhappy voice at his shoulder.

Snape turned. "_You_?"

Goyle nodded, his dull eyes downcast. "I started it. I pushed Stebbins."

Stebbins and Draco stared at Goyle, aghast. "Indeed?" Snape said, icily. "And why was that?"

"Dunno," Goyle said. "Because Hufflepuffs are thick. I guess."

There was an ominous growl from the Hufflepuffs. Snape glanced to them and dismissed them with a sharp nod. Stebbins stayed where he was, fidgeting. Snape turned back to Goyle. "Am I to understand that you take responsibility for this ... altercation?"

Goyle nodded slowly, colour rising hot and fast in his cheeks. He ignored Draco's wide, questioning gaze. "Yessir."

"Well," Snape said. "Well. You will report to Filch for your detention at 8 o'clock. Be prompt or I'll add another night to it."

Goyle nodded again. "Can we start class now? Sir?"

Snape's glance from Goyle to Draco was measuring, but all he said was, "Certainly."

-

-

Snape froze as he stepped out of Albus' Floo, uncomfortably aware of two distinct eyebrows being raised in his direction. "Headmaster," he said. "I didn't know that you were occupied, excuse me -- "

"Don't be silly, Severus," Minerva said, putting down her teacup. "Sit down and have some tea."

Snape dusted ash from his robes, not looking at her. "Actually, I had only come to borrow --"

Albus had already drawn his wand. A chair and a cup and saucer appeared in short order, despite Snape's protests. He seated himself and declined sugar and lemon drops, but grudgingly accepted a scone.

"I'm glad that you stopped by, Severus," Albus said, once the social niceties had been seen to. "I've been meaning to discuss something with you."

Severus tensed, the teacup lifted part way to his mouth. He set it back down on the plate and stared at it, his brows knitted together. "I'm afraid that this year's crop of prospective O.W.L. scholars are more hopeless than I was expecting. They require much of my free time, so I'm afraid I cannot possibly supervise Sinistra's detentions this week."

Minerva's mouth tightened. "Really, Severus," she said. "You know perfectly well that Albus didn't mean detentions. The staff has been willing to look the other way for some time, but the situation is getting quite out of hand. Yesterday's ... brawl is hardly the only incident that we've had lately, although of course it was the worst yet."

"What would you have me do, Minerva?" Snape asked, his tone deceptively mild. "Gregory Goyle accepted responsibility for the matter and I have punished him accordingly."

"You know as well as I do that that boy has all the initiative of a flobberworm," Minerva said crossly. "He wouldn't have -- "

"Minerva," Albus said, soothingly. "The larger issue, of course, is the effect all of this is having on the students of other Houses. Few students have been privy to the full, shall we say, confidence of Mr. Malfoy, and I'm afraid that this has fostered a great deal of misunderstanding. You haven't touched your scone, Severus."

"I'm not planning on eating it," Snape said shortly, his mouth tight. He didn't say that he would rather adopt Harry bloody Potter than punish his Slytherins for their grief. "Are any of my students in danger of failing?"

"Draco Malfoy certainly is," Minerva said. "He's been missing from Transfiguration this term more often than he's attended. I dare say it's the same with his other classes."

"How odd," Snape pronounced. "His attendance is nearly perfect in Potions."

Minerva gave him an irritated look. "Haven't you kept your eye on that boy?" she demanded. "Surely he wants some sort of guidance."

"That's as it may be, but he doesn't it want it from me," Snape said tightly. "I'm rather under the impression that he blames _me_ for Lupin's death."

Minerva's mouth turned downwards, sorrowfully. "Oh, Severus. Are you --"

Snape stood, suddenly, his hands clenched at his sides. He looked down at them and made an effort to unclench them. Albus lifted an eyebrow in his direction but said nothing. "I did not come here to discuss Lupin or my failings as Head of House. If there's nothing further, Albus, I need to borrow your Pensieve for a time."

"Sit down, Severus," Albus says quietly, his hands steepled beneath his chin. "Finish your tea. Please."

Snape sat, reluctantly, and took hold of his cup as though to keep his hands from reaching across and strangling Dumbledore. He gazed sourly into his tea, and then glanced up. "On the subject of Draco, Headmaster," Snape said, "I wish you would reconsider your decision not to allow Narcissa Malfoy to see her son."

Albus shook his head. "Mrs. Malfoy is still unaware of the circumstances surrounding her husband's disappearance. Would you want Draco to be forced to lie about what happened?"

Snape didn't answer for a long moment. "She has sent an owl to my private office every day for the last month," he said at last, his words measured carefully. "She began sending Draco letters on the first day of term; she sent his wand to him, which had been left at Malfoy Manor at the beginning of summer. She wants to see her son and I do not believe that she will be deterred from this. Why are we prolonging the situation? We cannot keep a mother from her child forever."

Minerva's face was turned downwards, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Dumbledore met Snape's eyes evenly. "I think it is best to let things work out on their own, for now," he said.

-

-

No more had been said about the matter before Snape took his leave, the Pensieve shrunken to fit in one hand. He took the Floo back to his rooms and left the Pensieve on a table almost dismissively, moving about his rooms and tidying up this or that, straightening the covers on his bed. He ignored the Pensieve, still shrunken and sitting so innocently atop the wooden table, with a casual disdain that had been perfected over the course of years. His eyes flicked to the clock on his desk; it was in that uncomfortable gap between tea and supper, and he had no detentions to supervise that afternoon. He rarely entertained unexpected visitors.

He strode back to the table, enlarging the Pensieve with a flick of his wand. Retrieving the memories he had stolen the previous week and untangling them from his own was no easy task. They had twined themselves around his own thoughts, not as vibrant as they would be in a Pensieve but still visible behind his eyes. It took skill and patience to weed through and separate all traces of himself that had pried into Black's thoughts, searching for the werewolf's presence.

The memories were heavy and shimmered with a dark, sickly light as he lifted them from his temple with his wand and cast them into the swirling waters.

Faces swam up to him and away, the reaching of a hand caught for an instant and then gone again.

Sirius Black's memories, stolen in a heartbeat and locked away in the secret places of Snape's mind, waited to be seen. Snape leaned forward and closed his eyes.

He opened his eyes to find himself looking through the glass panes of the kitchen door, the sunny sky a smear of blue through the smudged surface. He passed through the door without hesitation, the wooden steps under his feet silent beneath his weight. There was a sharp smell of herbs in the air, of lavender and rosemary and sage, delicate plants that had been destroyed by the cold that now wrapped around the Farmhouse. The artificial sun swept all sound away, muting the shouts of Sirius Black and Harry Potter, who were whooping and running through the long grass across the pond, their black hair glinting in the sunlight.

Snape's eyes drew to the two figures that sat in perfect stillness upon the grass, closer to where he stood. It was odd, that Black's memory had taken him to the kitchen, rather than where the Gryffindor romped with Potter. The boundaries of a memory placed into a Pensieve didn't depend strictly on the actual recall; a memory would be limited to the person's general awareness of their surroundings, not only to what they had actually overheard. Black had been aware of the quiet on the other side of the pond and if Snape really wanted to understand why Black's awareness had extended as far as the kitchen, he might have chalked it up to being close to mealtime. As it was, understanding the way that Black's spotty memory worked was far from his mind.

Sitting on the grass in silence were Remus Lupin and Draco Malfoy. Books lay scattered on either side of them, carelessly. Draco was wearing nearly the same outfit he had had on the day that Snape had visited them, bringing the Wolfsbane potion for Lupin; clothing must have been limited for him. As Snape grew closer, he saw that Draco had fallen asleep on the grass, his body twisted so that his face was pillowed on the thin length of Lupin's shin, his knees drawn up to circle the older man. Something twisted brutally in Snape's chest, and he ignored it, circling around the pair.

His hands clenched at his sides, his eyes raking over Lupin's face. It had been nearly two months since he'd seen it last, pale and bruised, looking through the wreath of the Floo. In the summer sun, however, he was flushed and healthy, his eyes downcast towards the book he held open in one hand, the other hand resting lightly on Draco's hair. From time to time his eyes flickered up to track the movements of Black and Potter, across the lake, and a smile stretched across his lips.

Slowly, his black eyes fixed on Lupin's mouth, Snape lowered himself to the fragrant grass beneath his feet. His limbs cried out in protest, no less weary for being inside a dream. He settled himself carefully, fingers plucking at the folds of his robes until they lay straight and comfortable across his legs. And as he watched, Lupin's voice carried softly upon the breeze.

"When the voices of children are heard on the green," Lupin said, "And laughing is heard on the hill, my heart is at rest within my breast and everything else is still."

He chuckled, and the sound of it seemed to settle in Snape's stomach, warming him. "That's rather appropriate, don't you think?" He glanced down to Draco, whose mouth was parted slightly, pale lashes dusting his cheekbones. "Well, I thought so."

Snape's life seemed to be measured out in shadows and trials. For many years he had seen his days as an endless series of troubles; he waited them out, survived them, parceled out his time into brief periods, filing them away into dusty corridors that he rarely visited. He had never known anything like the sunny sky or the open field that he sat in, watching two figures swoop among the tall grass, laughing, Remus Lupin sitting quietly with a sleeping child upon his knee. Snape had never known a day that felt as though it could last forever.

Sooner or later, the memory he had stolen from Black would end. Black and Potter would come back from the other side of the pond, red-cheeked with wind and high spirits, and Draco would wake and perhaps take Lupin's hand or smile at him the way that he had as a child, the way he used to smile at Snape. Then, perhaps, they'd all head inside and do something sickening, like sit down for a meal as a family, laughing and joking. Then, later, Lupin and Black would send the boys to bed and turn to each other.

A warm breeze lifted Snape's hair from his face and sent fine white strands tumbling over Draco's. He watched Lupin brush them back, absentmindedly, his eyes barely moving from the book in his hand.

Snape watched, silent, until time slipped away beneath his feet.

-

-

She smelled of flowers. Not like pansies, of course, she had turned her nose up to her corsage those when they went to the Yule Ball together, pouting prettily until he transfigured them into orchids. She smelled of roses, of lavender. Her hair was in his mouth and his hands were on her naked back and he had been proud even then that they didn't shake. He had thought it would be quick, that maybe they would have the Cruciatus curse cast on them before a bolt of green light would bring an end to the agony. There had been a sick fear dawning in the pit of his belly but he hadn't said anything, and neither had she, not even when they were pulled apart and his robes ripped off when he wouldn't let go of her hand.

His mother had always smelled of roses, and it was her that he thought of. She had sprinkled rose water on the sheets of her bed, and when he was very small he used to clamber atop the covers to wake her up on early Sunday mornings. The smell of roses was tangled up in his memory with bright light and the softness of his mother's skin.

He had closed his eyes after Amycus, the wizard's wheezy giggle in his ears. After that had been the smell of grass, so rich and green against a copper smell that he shied away from. Nothing blocked out Pansy's gulping, shuddering cries and --

A warm mouth pressed itself wetly against his neck and Draco started, nearly leaping out the stained glass window in his panic. "Harry!" he stammered. Harry grinned at him foolishly. His hair was damp with rain, his scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.

"Hi," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing," Draco said warily. "Thinking."

Harry cocked an eyebrow at him, looking far too clever for his own good. "I think your friends are looking for you," he said. "I heard Crabbe asking that -- er, Nott, where you were."

Draco blinked at him and said nothing. Around the outline of Harry's form there seemed to be trees moving in a summer breeze, hooded figures swaying beneath them. He watched them uneasily. "Is it raining outside?" he asked abruptly.

Harry, who had become rather used to Draco's mood swings and unpredictable behaviour over the past few months, only settled down on the window ledge, his face turned towards Draco. "Yeah, I just came from Herbology. We had to run back from the greenhouses ... it's really coming down."

Draco glanced back towards the window. Rain. He could see it now, splattering occasionally against the panels of the glass. He put the fact of the rain between him and the forest and pulled himself back with an effort. He drew Harry close and buried his nose in the warm, wooly folds of Harry's scarf and stayed there quietly. Harry laughed a little when Draco's cold nose touched his ear, but wrapped his arms obligingly around the other boy, stroking his hair. It was long enough to have lost that newborn chick look, and lay down more or less against his head. It was pale, even paler than his hair had been when he cut it off, nearly colourless and thin, like a child's hair.

"Are you hungry?" Harry asked. Draco nodded, his eyes closed. "It's not dinnertime yet, but I bet we could go down and get something from the kitchens."

Harry's house-elf friend cowered from Draco, clearly remembering life in the Malfoy household. The other house-elves swarmed them, however, and in short order they were supplied with a nice picnic lunch to carry away with them. Harry led Draco up the stairs to Gryffindor tower and lifted the portrait of a smarmy old man with a monkey to reveal a surprisingly cozy little nook, with blankets spread across the stone floor and a round window that overlooked the forest.

Draco halted on the threshold, looking about the room. Harry waved his wand and two warm, flickering lights appeared above his head. "You know quite a few hidden passageways," Draco said, shutting the portrait behind him.

Harry blushed. "Yeah, it's er. This thing that Fred and George Weasley gave me. It's this map that shows where people are in the castle and, you know, passages and rooms and things."

Draco made a thoughtful noise and sat down among the blankets, passing a hand over their surface. "I'm starving," he lied. "What did they put in the basket for us?"

Harry flopped down beside him and opened the basket, pawing through its contents. His nose crinkled in a way that Draco found annoyingly irresistible, but he held himself still while Harry rummaged. "Sandwiches," he pronounced finally. "Two chicken sandwiches, two with fish paste. Half of a chocolate cake and some grapes and things." Draco reached for a chicken sandwich and Harry for a fish sandwich, and they sat leaning together and talking of small things. Dean Thomas was going out with Ginny Weasley, and Ron was in a snit over it. Daphne Greengrass had argued with Professor Umbridge so violently that she had been given detention every night for the next two weeks.

"What about?" Harry asked. He could vaguely place Daphne Greengrass in his mind as a short girl with curly hair and dark skin, whose expression was usually set in a sort of vague unfriendliness. He had identified her by sight the week earlier and Draco had pronounced it a vast improvement.

Draco stared at his sandwich. "You know that line that Umbridge has been feeding us all year? That we should put our trust in the Ministry to protect us from You-Know-Who and we shouldn't be learning practical Defense because it only encourages an interest in Dark Arts?"

"Yeah?"

Draco's voice was dull as he continued. "Daphne demanded to have a practical lesson because we can't even trust our own families to keep us safe, much less the Ministry."

"Wow," Harry said quietly. He chewed in thoughtful silence. "She was friends with Pansy, right?"

Draco nodded and reached for the grapes. He popped one in his mouth and offered one to Harry. Harry leaned forward and lipped it from Draco's fingers, grinning as though he'd done something quite clever. His lips were wet and soft and he kissed Draco's fingers lightly before settling back.

Draco watched him with hooded eyes, and held up another grape. This time Harry's tongue traced a slow path around the ball of his thumb, licking gently at the webbing of his palm and drew his finger deep into Harry's mouth. He laughed softly, startled by the sensation, and Harry glanced up. "Does it tickle?" he asked.

"A little. It's ok. It's -- good."

They tumbled down onto the blankets, the food shoved hastily to the side and forgotten. Their legs tangled together, Draco stretched fully over Harry, his hands cupped around Harry's. His hipbones were sharp against Draco's own. The light from the lamps flickered across their skin.

Draco shivered when Harry pushed his robes off and pulled his shirt up over his head. Harry rolled them together and, his knees on either side of Draco's waist, leaned back to take his own shirt off. Draco propped himself up on his elbows, following the movement, his eyes drifting back down to the dark hair just above the line of Harry's trousers.

Harry traced the scars on Draco's belly with a bold hand, following the line of one into the hollow of his belly and along the curve of one rib. His eyes followed his fingers with a strange intensity that was unsettlingly familiar until Draco's mind drifted towards steam and the smell of copper vanishing down the drain. The shower at the Farmhouse, the first time he had seen Harry naked, although his mind had been rather far away at the time. He shivered again and reached for Harry, trying to put the feeling of snow on his skin far from his mind.

He ran his hands up the curve of Harry's spine, bent almost gracefully over him, but Harry caught his wrists and pulled them over his head, pinning them to the ground with one hand while the other slipped under his waistband. Draco tugged on them, experimentally, and Harry tightened his grip at the same moment his other hand busied itself elsewhere.

A shudder ran through Draco, snapping his spine straight and stiff. Harry, mistaking the motion for arousal, bent his neck to bite the side of Draco's neck, high up beneath his ear in the place that always made Draco moan.

Instead, the noise that came from Draco's throat was a keening sort of sob, and he bucked hard against Harry, violently yanking his wrists out of Harry's grasp. Harry, who had already been off had already been off-balance while spanning the width of Draco's body, went sprawling. He crushed the leftover sandwiches -- thankfully they had been wrapped -- and the hamper skidded across the floor and bumped up against the far wall. For a moment, all he could do was gape at Draco, who had pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.

"What the fuck!" he snapped. His face was red, extending in a blush down his chest.

"What?" Harry said, scrambling to his feet. "What did I do?"

Draco's eyes shied away from his face, and he pulled away when Harry approached, snatching his shirt off the floor and pulling it over his head. He fussed with the buttons, his chin nearly against his collarbone.

"If you didn't like it, you could have just said so," said Harry, angrily. He reached for Draco, who shrugged him off and bent to pick up his cloak. "What is wrong with you?"

"You were _hurting_ me," Draco said petulantly, his pale eyes finally meeting Harry's. "My shoulders hurt. I had to carry something very heavy yesterday and they've been aching all day."

"Well, you --" Harry said, and then stopped. "Are you _leaving_?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Obviously," he drawled. "If I had known you were such a _pervert_ I wouldn't have come here at all. Merlin only knows what you had planned for me next. Some of that M & S, like that magazine that Blaise had."

"I'm not a pervert!" Harry shouted. "All I was doing was holding your hands down -- and anyway you liked it too! Calling me a pervert, you and your blindfolds!" His cock was still achingly hard, undeterred by the humiliation he felt.

Draco sneered at him, bundling his robes up underneath his arm. Without them on, it was all too clear to Harry that despite his behaviour, the other boy was just as hard as he was. "Don't try to cast your depravity on me, Potter." Harry stopped, struck by the use of the name, and Draco swept out. The portrait slammed behind him.

Harry stood still for a long moment, his eyes fixed, unseeing, on the back of the portrait. The shout that escaped him at last was part fury, part embarrassment, and a bright burning _need_ that lingered still in the pit of his belly. He threw his shirt on and shoved his fists through the sleeves of his robes and left the picnic hamper behind for the house-elves to find.

-

-

The halls were silent when he shut the portrait behind him and made his way to Gryffindor tower. The common room was empty; a quick glance at his watch confirmed that it was dinnertime. Harry took the winding stairs two at a time, grabbed his broom, and headed to the Quidditch pitch.

He almost went back when he saw the dim figure of another person above the pitch. He squinted up and saw copper hair glinting against the light of the fading sun, and smiled. He swung a leg over his broom and joined Ginny Weasley in the air.

The rain had tapered off while he had been with Draco, and angry clouds hung close to their heads, trying to choke out the last bit of sunlight that the day had to offer. Ginny flashed him a brilliant grin when she spotted him, and looped swiftly around him, glancing over her shoulder as if daring him to follow.

He gave chase and outpaced her easily. She spurred the school broom harder, her pale face creased in concentration. Harry laughed out loud, the knot of hurt in his chest easing a bit in the rush of wind on his face. They circled each other in the sky, as fiercely competitive as he had ever been with Draco.

And if he closed his eyes, it could have _been_ Draco and there could have been the beat of an artificial sun on his back and the smell of lavender in the air, the lowing of the Dingwall Gins below ...

They landed on the Gryffindor stands when it began to rain again, hurrying beneath the striped canopy. Harry set his broom aside and sat down on a bench, wrapping his robes closely around his legs to keep them warm. Ginny sat down beside him. "Why aren't you in the Hall? Not hungry?" she inquired.

Harry shook his head. "No, I was ... upset about something. Needed to get out of the castle for a bit. What about you?"

Ginny rolled her eyes, pulling her hair back from her face with a careless gesture. "Oh, the same. Dean and I had a row earlier. Merlin, he's such a bore sometimes."

"Oh," Harry said. He hadn't spoken much to Dean since the morning Remus' belongings had been willed to them. Dean had hung the African mask on the wall above his bed, removing his treasured West Ham poster to do so. He hadn't snubbed Harry, so to speak, but any interaction between them was awkward and Harry had decided that things were best left alone. Seamus had assured him without being asked that Dean didn't hate him, and in a vague way Harry was reassured.

"He's just sopping wet," Ginny said, leaning close to Harry with a distasteful expression on her face. "He thinks that relationships are all about holding hands and things like that."

"Oh," Harry said, rather mystified. She was so close that he could smell her perfume.

She shrugged, her eyes bright with amusement. "He drew me this weird picture, you should see it. It's hilarious."

She drew a piece of parchment out of her robes and handed it to him. Harry took it reluctantly, as unwilling as any fifteen-year-old boy would be to see the emotional outpourings of another.

It was a drawing of Ginny herself, in profile, her hair falling forward over her neck as though Dean had drawn her bending over her homework. Her eyes were a brilliant color and there was a kiss of the sun on her skin. It was a fine portrait, although Harry wouldn't have been able to put it into words himself, of the way you looked at someone you were in love with. She was beautiful in it. Along the edges of her hair was a sprawling rose, and upon the rose were written words.

"The red rose whispers of passion, and the white rose breathes of love," Harry read aloud. "O the red rose ... is a falcon? And the white rose is a dove. But I send you a cream-white rosebud with a flush on its petal tips ..." He glanced towards Ginny, his eyebrows high. "Uh, wow."

"I know," she said. "It's ridiculous. He just doesn't understand me. He's just too sweet. I need somebody more natural, more aggressive."

Beneath her perfume, Harry could smell her skin, warm and clean. "I hate talking about feelings," he confessed. "I hate having to worry about what -- the other person is feeling. I hate having to guess what they're thinking and if I'm doing the right thing and having them do things that make no sense."

Ginny rested her chin on her open hand. Annoyingly, Harry was reminded of Draco once again, who always seemed to be unwilling to sit up straight in any class but Snape's. Anger swept over him again, and he tried to push it away. Ginny caught the frown on his face and leaned forward. "What is it?" she said.

"I just --" He stopped, shifting restlessly in his seat. Ginny's hip was pressed against his own, and suddenly he didn't feel the cold at all. "I'm just tired of everything."

"Me too," she said fiercely, and leaned over and kissed him. He gasped in surprise, and Ginny took the opportunity to slip her tongue into his mouth, sliding it along his bottom lip. Oh, _Merlin_. His arousal, nearly forgotten, surged painfully into his stomach. She brought both hands up as she kissed him, capturing his face. Ginny's mouth was soft against his, so much softer than a boy's, and she whimpered when he threaded his hands through her long, soft hair. For the briefest of moments, a small voice in his head begged of him, "What about Draco?"

It was all too easy to push the thought aside. To hell with Draco, he thought as he slid his hands down her sides to her hips. When he put his hands on her hips she responded eagerly, parting briefly from him to straddle his waist.

Ginny's robes had hitched up over her legs when she climbed on top of him and Harry could feel her bare skin beneath and the itch of her socks below her pleated skirt. He ran his hands up her sides, marveling at how soft her body was, and she gave a triumphant little sigh. His thumbs reached the swell of her breasts and there he hesitated.

They were _squishy_.

Harry had never touched a breast before and had expected them to be ... different. Certainly not so soft and heavy in his hand. He glanced up into Ginny's face to see if she could possibly be enjoying the feel of his hands on them, but her smile was blissful before she bent to kiss him again.

"I never really gave up on you," she said breathily. "Not really. I always hoped ..."

She bit and sucked her way down his neck, missing the expression of shock on Harry's face. He tipped his head back to let her, but his eyes were wide as he stared up at the awning. He remembered Ron mentioning his kid sister had had a thing for him when she was little, and there had been that awful, shrill card in second year, but he hadn't given thought to it for some time. He moved his hands to her back, slipping up under the hem of her top to touch the soft skin at the base of her spine. She glanced up and flashed him a mischievous grin before sliding forward on his thighs and --

Harry gulped in a startled breath, unable to help himself. Ginny tossed her head back and ground against him again. It had been shock, however, and not pleasure that had made him gasp.

He tried to push Ginny back onto the bench, but she mistook his panic for ardor and simply kept at what she'd been doing. He only managed to unseat her when he stood up, plunking her down firmly onto the bench beneath his feet. She winced and scrambled to her feet, staring up at him in astonishment. "What's wrong?" she cried. "Didn't you like it?"

Harry shook his head, trying and failing to find a way to put _You're missing something important_ into words. "No, I -- it's not that. It's nice. It -- it really is. But it wasn't -- I think I made a mistake," he babbled. "It just wasn't right. For me. But you're -- I'm sorry. Just sorry."

He plucked his broom off the bench and took off in the direction of Gryffindor Tower, without so much as a backwards glance.

-

-

Harry trudged up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, his broom heavy in his hand. He had landed near the greenhouses and paced around the farthest one for some time. His face was still flushed, his stomach still in knots no matter how hard he had thrown his fists into the side of the greenhouse or how many clumps of grass he had kicked up.

He had tried not to look at Ginny Weasley's face as he had fled from the Quidditch stands, but her wide eyes seemed to have been seared into his memory, the slow transformation in her face from arousal to pained embarrassment. He hadn't thought, only acted, dumping her off his lap as if she was a piece of meat.

Harry's first kiss had been with Draco, over the summer, in the bedroom they shared in Remus' Farmhouse. It had been strange and more than a little terrifying. Since the first day that they had met, Draco had always been able to bring Harry out of himself -- usually kicking and cursing -- to levels of passion and resolve that he'd never imagined within himself, and sex had been no different from dueling or discovering the identity of Slytherin's heir. Since that first exhilarating kiss, Harry had felt intoxicated.

It had never occurred to him, however, that he might not fancy girls.

He had considered Cho Chang to be quite fit, and he had acknowledged Padma and Parvati were both very pretty. He had never really thought about fancying one sex over the other; by nature, Harry was not a very introspective person, and having sex with Draco Malfoy had seemed oddly natural. He had accepted it, entranced by everything they did together and everything he felt. He _liked_ sex, craved it, thought about it constantly as all fifteen-year-old boys do. But when Ginny had pressed herself against his groin, he had felt only dampness and warmth instead of the aching hardness that his brain had unquestioningly expected -- Merlin, he couldn't stand to think about it anymore.

He turned his eyes to his feet and watched the dirty laces of his trainers as they moved up step after step. He didn't see the slim figure leaning stiffly against the stone wall outside the Gryffindor dorms until he was nearly upon it.

He froze, one foot on the landing and one on the step below it, his mouth opening and closing convulsively. Draco's eyes widened and he pushed himself off of the wall and stood without speaking, facing Harry.

"You waiting for someone?" Harry said aggressively, after a pause. A guilty nausea rose in his stomach, and he struggled against it. He could still feel the softness of Ginny Weasley's breasts against his hands. He wiped his free hand on his robes self-consciously, as if he could get rid of the feeling the same way he'd clean an ink stain off of his fingers.

Draco's mouth twitched, and he tucked his bottom lip between his teeth. His jaw was set and he looked Harry square in the eye when he spoke, however. "I might be. You've been gone a while, at any rate. Where'd you skive off to? London? Fancy a short trip to India, did you?"

Harry lifted his broom. "I went flying out on the Quidditch pitch after you flounced off," he growled. "Though I don't see how it's any business of yours. What are you doing out here, anyway? Shouldn't you be in the dungeon with your little bodyguards? Can't really call them friends, I guess."

Draco's lip lifted in an imperious sneer. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you. It seems fairly obvious that you've made up your pathetic little mind, so I won't even bother. See you around, Potter."

Harry grabbed his arm as Draco brushed by him, halting the Slytherin in his tracks. "Draco -- look. I'm sorry. Alright? I'm just ... I'm sorry. I haven't made my mind up about anything. I'm just ..." He trailed off, and when he spoke again his voice was hardly above a whisper. "Why are you here?"

Draco drew his arm up protectively, but didn't try to pull it out of Harry's grasp. "I ..." He looked down at his feet. "I'm ..." He was silent for interminable moments, chewing on his lower lip before he abruptly squared his jaw and glanced back up into Harry's face. "I came to apologise. I've been waiting here for a while and I -- I've been a bit thick."

Harry blinked, taken aback. He stared into Draco's eyes, examining them closely. His grip on Draco's arm loosened, and the Slytherin moved it to rest on Harry's waist. Harry flinched and Draco pulled away immediately. Harry caught his hand again and twined their fingers together tightly. "Thanks," he said. "for admitting it. You're not the only one. I've, er, been a bit dense myself."

"You're always dense, you idiot," Draco said, his eyes lowered.

"Least I'm not a prat," Harry whispered. Draco swayed closer, as if he couldn't help himself, and he glanced up and away, a small smile tugging itself over his thin lips. His body was hard against Harry's own, sharp hips where Harry was used to sharp hips being, the absence of soft breasts against his chest a relief. His arms, folded around Harry's shoulders, stuck out sharply to either side, with no frightening curves to them.

"You're just jealous that I'm sexier than you," he said smugly into Harry's ear, his breath hot and his lips achingly close to Harry's earlobe. "I had been waiting for a while, you know. So inconsiderate of you to keep me waiting like that. I forgive you, though."

"Do you?" Harry managed. Draco's mouth closed over his earlobe, and a long groan dragged itself from his throat. All thoughts of Ginny Weasley vanished as Draco pressed closer against him.

"Of course," Draco whispered. "I always forgive you, don't I? So stupid of me. I just can't seem to give up on you, you idiot."

Harry stiffened, ever so slightly, and pushed it down reflexively, biting his lip to keep words from pouring out. The feeling of Ginny's body pressing against him rose nauseatingly in his memory even as Draco's nose nudged against his own, as Draco's mouth pressed hard against his. Panic rose thick in his throat, thoughts choking him: _what if he can taste her on me?_

"I can't even think," Draco breathed. "Everything is so confusing, Harry. I hate you but I love you and I think I love you because I hate you. Maybe it's the other way. But I do, you know. Love you, that is. Too much. So much that everything gets all jumbled in my head and I can't do anything." He grinned against Harry's lips. "You'll be the death of me, I know it."

Harry said nothing; could say nothing. His stomach churned and he felt as though he'd be sick, but Draco didn't seem to notice. A grin had spread over his face. "What? Stunned by my rapier wit and angelic beauty? I'd say shut up and kiss me, but you've got that half covered." He leaned just that fraction of an inch closer and pressed his lips to Harry's again.

And Harry let him, praying Draco wouldn't notice his hesitation. He didn't, and nor did he seem to notice how much Harry's hands were shaking as they came up to grasp his hips. Harry dug his fingers into Draco's skin, hoping that Draco wouldn't ask him to explain, wouldn't ask for reasons for his strange, frantic kisses. He didn't know if he could explain, really.

He was already too busy trying to figure out how to ask for forgiveness.


	7. I Will Trust Authority

**Title:** The Spinning World: I Will Trust Authority

**Author:** Hans Bekhart

**Rating: **PG-13

**Summary:**In the sequelto _Casualties of War_, Harry and Draco's fifth year at Hogwarts has begun, and they must try to rebuild the lives they used to lead. In which Sirius has drunken conversations, Slytherins get wet, naked and touch each other, and Harry's mistake gets found out. (Harry/Draco, Remus/Sirius, others)  
**Notes:** Super thanks to shored and seaoftethys for beta'ing and an additional thanks to shored for the use of her Teeny Tweedlebugs. This chapter was hard for me because I hate writing Gryffindors, so I hope that part ok. Feedback and reviews are very much appreciated.

-

-

-

Ginny found Hermione in the library, buried deep within musty textbooks, surrounded by silence and Ravenclaws. Professor Sinistra had assigned work dealing with fortune-telling, and a short while ago Terry Boot had passed Hermione an absolutely fascinating book on Chinese face reading with a tiny smile that made Hermione forgive him for what he said about her in Ancient Runes some weeks ago.

Ginny had come up behind her and tapped Hermione on the shoulder twice before she noticed, and when she glanced up at Ginny's face she thought: _there's a bump to the top of her nose, that means she's strong-willed but won't be lucky in love, and the little groove beneath her nose is very defined, that means a strong sexual energy_ before she actually focused on her. Her normally cheerful, obstinate features were flushed and her hair was disheveled

"Ginny?" Hermione asked, startled. "Are you alright?"

She was aware of the eyes of her study group following them as Ginny led her behind a stack of books and into a corner, her jaw lowered and her eyebrows knitted together. "What's happened, Ginny? You look awful," Hermione said, and Ginny glanced up at her and then away, scowling. "Has something happened?" she asked, worriedly.

"Oh, Hermione, you are never going to believe ... Harry, Harry and I -- oh Merlin, Hermione. It was awful."

The next person to hear was Parvati Patil, who had come to the library for a book on ancient Greek mythology and came away with the juicy news that Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley had spent a significant amount of time on top of the Quidditch stands and they hadn't been just watching the sun set, if you know what I mean. Parvati carried the news not only to the Gryffindor House but told it to her sister as well, and from there it spread to the upper echelon of Ravenclaw. Each time the story was told it shifted beneath the teller's tongue, new details adding and subtracting themselves so that by the time it reached the ears of Slytherin house it was dead certain that Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley had had sex in the Quidditch commentators box.

But it would take nearly a week for that to happen, and by the time a small scrap of a Slytherin named Graham Pritchard overheard two Hufflepuffs discussing the incident, Harry still hadn't told Draco what actually had happened in the Quidditch stands, the day of their fight.

And as these things usually go, Dean Thomas hadn't heard about it, either.

-

-

"Isn't it funny," Sirius said to the world at large, "how you can know someone inside and out, and then find out you didn't know them at all?" He took another taste of the bottle for emphasis, shaking it lightly as he brought it back to his side to confirm that there was still liquid inside. Crumpled in his other hand was a long roll of parchment that stuck out between his fingers. He had left a trail of carnage from the attic on downwards, but the grass beneath his bony frame was clear of everything except for a shining bit of dark glass here and there.

Sirius was barefoot in the sunlight, hunched over his knees by the lavender bushes. He hadn't worked on the wards that Remus had used to keep his home warm and safe, but Snape had been making the odd repair here and there. Sirius had watched Snape work for hours the last time he had been there, pacing around the outlines of the property, searching for the traces of magic that still lingered in every blade of grass and every clod of dirt. He had resurrected Remus' work as though he were conducting a symphony, drawing the neglected threads out of the ground and binding the bass notes of the old spells with his own complex charms, bending it to his needs. The sunlight had returned, blocking out the snow that blanketed the surrounding countryside, and the Dingwall Gins had drawn in close to the house, annoying Sirius in the night with their noise.

Sirius closed his eyes and tipped his head back, fighting a rather giddy urge to simply fold himself over into the grass and sleep. The sun was bright against the back of his eyelids and he rolled his head from side to side, enjoying the feeling. "I don't think I knew you at all, you bastard," he announced brightly. "Every time I get to thinking that I've got you figured out, that you don't have any secrets I don't know about, you pull the curtain away and --"

He broke off abruptly, frowning at his fist and the letter tucked inside of it, before bursting into surprised giggles. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!" he crowed. "Muggles. Muggles and their idea of magic -- !"

There was a step on the grass behind him. He didn't turn, and after a moment a shadow slipped over him. "I would have thought Lupin's larder would be exhausted by this point," Snape said dryly. "Or was he as much of a drunkard as you seem to be?"

"Nah," Sirius said, opening his eyes and squinting out over the pond. "I apparated to the nearest town. It's all Muggle and probably wasn't electrified more than twenty years ago, so I've been able to walk around and get things at the pub without them recognising me."

"That is what you do with your hard-won freedom, is it?" Snape mused. "Buying _whisky_. I'm sure you're very proud of what you're making of your life."

"If I was sober," Sirius said clearly, "I think I'd hex your face off. Not all of it, but little strips of it, just a bit at a time. Maybe I'd turn you into one of those Gins and take you back to Hogwarts, give you to the first years for a pet. Now that -- that would make me proud. I'd be able to die a happy, if verrrry drunk, man." He giggled and leaned back on his hands, still not looking at Snape. "Now shut your mouth, Snivellius. I'm having a conversation."

Snape lifted an eyebrow and surveyed the landscape, empty even of the Farmhouse's bovine inhabitants, but said nothing. Sirius resumed speaking.

"I never," he said, lifting his chin, "thought you had some sort of return to virginity during -- _those_ years (I didn't, Snivellius, and anyway we hadn't much claim on each other after Hogwarts, but I expect you know that, you grubby little snake.) but you never said anything. What was I supposed to think? Was I supposed to ask?"

"What is in your hand, Black?" Snape asked coolly.

"It's a letter," Sirius pronounced. "Took me a bloody long time to remember the translating charms to work it out, I'll tell you. Wouldn't have ever known what language it was except he mentioned living in Hong Kong once." Sirius tossed the parchment over his shoulder in Snape's general direction. Snape retrieved it from the ground and smoothed the paper over his knee thoughtfully.

"It's Chinese, as any fool can tell," he said dryly. "Is that so far beyond you?"

Sirius chuckled. "Did Remus ever make anything that simple? It's something called _guwen_. He had a book about it in the same box I found it in. It hasn't been in use since the Han dynasty, meaning roughly two thousand bloody years. Why did he translate his little love letter into a form of Chinese that hasn't been used in roughly two thousand bloody years, when he was living all by himself anyway, when all he apparently did with it after turning it completely unreadable was stick it into a very small box in the attic?" He paused to consider the question. "Well. Well -- if you can figure it out -- you'd be a better man than I, which I --"

He subsided into quiet without finishing the sentence, his chin tipped thoughtfully towards the sky.

"It's a love letter?" Snape asked, finally. He tapped the parchment with his wand and watched the spindly Chinese characters twist themselves into modern _baihua_ and from there into English. The more ... poetic elements of the letter seemed to have been lost with his translation charms, but the intent was plain enough.

Snape let out a tight, agonized breath and then forced another into his lungs. He wasn't surprised; over the course of his correspondence with Lupin in the months after his capture, the werewolf had hinted at a colourful life, and if the contents of his will had shown nothing else, it had revealed Lupin to be ... uncomfortably unpredictable.

Snape bent his head over the letter, studying it with a ruthless gaze. Even though he had possessed an unsettlingly poetic bent when he was young, his knowledge of words that would burn the page they were written on was strictly anecdotal. If he divorced himself from the knowledge of who had sent the letter -- and who had received it --

He looked up when Black spoke, haltingly, his words a drunken lilt.

"I just wish," Black said slowly. "I just wish that I had known enough to ask. I didn't even know ... all of the things I didn't know."

_And now it's too late_, he didn't add. Snape heard it anyway.

Hail fell heedlessly against the barrier of the Farmhouse, glancing angrily off the invisible wards. Behind them, in the rambling stone of the house, secrets were hidden away in the chinks of the walls, in dusty boxes that hadn't been opened since they had been young and whole.

Snape sighed, and stood. "Come on, Black," he said, his voice a parody of its normal languid tone. "This drunken self-pity is boring and pointless. I'm not about to make you dinner, but I can Floo to Hogwarts for an antidote to the no doubt _horrendous _hangover you'll have in the morning."

Black chuckled. "Not leaving me to suffer in agony, Snivellus?" he asked. The question, strangely, seemed honestly curious. Snape made no reply, but stepped in front of Black and held out a hand.

Black turned empty grey eyes to Snape, the pain in them as obvious as the memories that poured from his brain, offering themselves up as though Black _knew. Knew_ that Snape was stealing them away to nurse in the privacy of his rooms, exactly as Black himself had been nursing the bottle. Snape hesitated, nearly withdrew his hand and then Black had grasped it, hauling himself onto unsteady legs before clapping a hand onto Snape's shoulder as though they were friends.

Black grinned at Snape, heedless of the scowl directed at him. His hand on Snape's shoulder was heavy, but Snape was frozen beneath Black's gaze and the pictures that fluttered behind his eyes. They stayed that way for a long moment before Sirius pulled away, grinning.

"Ho ho ho to the bottle I go," he sang as he weaved towards the Farmhouse. "To heal my heart and drown my woe ..."

Snape stared down at the bottles beneath his feet, at the parchment still grasped loosely in his other hand. He glanced upwards, irritated at the sky and the fact that he was about to follow Sirius Black inside and try to force the bastard into some form of sobriety, before Floo'ing back to Hogwarts.

Snape let Remus' letter fall from his hand and turned his footsteps towards his new home.

-

-

"You know," Draco said conversationally, tugging his pajama top over his head, "I've never really apologised for anything before. It's quite nice."

Theo glanced over to him and then away as bottoms followed top and Draco wandered, naked, into the brightness of the Slytherin showers. There were two scars, deeper and paler than the rest, that came down from his shoulder blades, twining and crossing the others, and joined together just above the swell of Draco's bottom. Theo's gaze traced these lines and glanced away guiltily when Vincent and Gregory stumbled into the room, rubbing their eyes. They nodded to Theo and shucked their clothes. The three of them followed Draco to the showers.

It was bright inside the Slytherin showers, brighter than the rest of the House's space beneath the dungeons. It was long and cool and the stones beneath their feet and reaching up the walls were a pale, shimmering green. Here, as indeed in most of the places that Slytherin had set his hand to, snakes were the obvious decorating motif; their coils ran round the piping and up to spit hot water from their mouths. Salazar himself could be glimpsed in the mosaic on the eastern wall, his flowing hair and beard intertwined with sea creatures beyond all description. When they were eleven, Draco and his friends had found the snake shower heads absolutely hilarious, but they were far more blasé about them these days.

Draco was already slick and wet beneath a spray of water along the western wall. He didn't glance up as Gregory and Vincent settled onto his left side, and Theo on the right. The boys showered quietly, grunts passing as conversation flowing between Vincent and Greg, still too sleepy for form coherent sentences. Draco's eyes were closed and a small smile lifted one corner of his mouth, and Theo's glance caught there, surreptitiously.

"I actually said sorry to Potter the other day," Draco said cheerfully as he opened his eyes, picking up the thread of conversation as though there hadn't been a pause. "You know, I had never really thought of doing that before?"

"What have you been doing, then?" Theo asked, knowing the answer. "Stomping your feet and pouting until you get your way?"

Draco sneered eloquently at him, but his eyes were dancing. Something uncomfortable and nameless twisted in Theo's gut, and he frowned and reached for the shampoo, squeezing it out over his hand and pointedly ignoring Draco, who prattled on as though he had a willing and eager audience.

Theo retreated inside himself, watching the heavy fall of water onto his stomach with a fixed attention. He pulled his thoughts away from Draco with an effort and for a short while was actually able to clear his mind of everything that had troubled it lately. It didn't last, of course; when he was younger he had been able to push everything away from himself, but that talent had been irritatingly absent lately, just when he needed it most. Gregory hadn't been the only Slytherin to get letters from home.

Blaise wandered over to them and passed his fingers over Draco's hair. "Are you going to cut it again?" he asked, his mouth twisted as he tried to get enough of a grip to tug on the short strands.

Draco's hand came up without pause to bat Blaise away. "I might," he said loftily. "It looks quite good on me, doesn't it?" He leaned over and snatched the soap out of Theo's hands as the taller boy was soaping his chest, blithely ignoring the glare shot at him.

"You look like a boy, at least," Blaise observed. "You should get Daphne to help you cut this all off or grow it back to normal, it looks stupid at this length." He draped his arm around Draco's narrow shoulders and craned his head to the side, dark fingers ruffling at the soft hair in front of Draco's ear before pressing a quick kiss to the side of Draco's head and moving off again.

Theo grabbed the soap back from Draco when his head turned to follow Blaise. "Do you think I should cut my hair, Theo?" Draco asked, but Theo's attention was far away.

Theo's father, to the wizarding world at large, was on the run along with several other Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself. Theo knew better; most of them were holed up in a village called Little Hangleton, in an uncomfortably ancient property that had one belonged to a wizarding family that had died out some generations ago. He didn't know what they were doing; Theo's father never said directly, giving vague mentions instead of a plan that would cripple their enemies.

Theodore Nott was far more clever than most of his dorm mates, and had a far clearer idea of what their fathers got up to when they put on those black hoods. His father had never shielded him, like Draco's father had, never cloaked his doings in a guise of revolutionary language. Theodore Nott had had no trouble believing that his father could rape a fifteen year old girl while one of his friends held her down and another pulled her fingernails out one by one with his wand. It wasn't something that his father had confirmed and it wasn't based on anything Draco had ever said, but that was the image that replayed itself in Theo's mind whenever he let his guard down, his brain caught by endless memories of Pansy Parkinson painting her fingernails by the fire in the Slytherin common room.

Draco called his name again, more pointedly, and Theo's head snapped up. Draco's head was cocked towards him, his face curious, a ferret testing the air. Even his hands were up against his chest, curled protectively around the shampoo like it was a bit of fruit or something, and Theo snickered. He shook his head when Draco lifted an eyebrow at him and turned off his shower. "I'm clean and so are you," he said to Draco. "Come on, I'm hungry."

Draco insisted on a moment to make sure he'd gotten all the soap out of his ears before trailing tamely after Theo. He snagged a towel from the changing room and wrapped it around his waist before vanishing back to their room, but Theo took his time and dried himself carefully. More bodies passed in and out of the room on their way to the showers or returning, damp and quieted from the hot water. Theo struggled against his thoughts. He stood apart from his classmates, even more than usual; he had always been aloof, but now he felt as if his back would break beneath all of the memories that crowded his mind.

It was nearly time for breakfast when he emerged from the showers to find that people were waiting for him. Millicent Bulstrode had collared a first year, dwarfed by her bulky frame, and narrowed her eyes when she saw Theo emerge. "Took you long enough," she said, and went on without waiting for a response. "I think we have a problem."

Theo looked at the first year, mystified, and Millicent pushed him forward. "Go on, Pritchard. Tell him what you told me."

-

-

_I will trust authority._

The water of the lake was cool on Daphne's hand. Every muscle in her body wanted to curl around itself, and so she laid herself flat on her belly, chin propped against the back of her other hand, determinedly stretching her ankles and knees out until they popped in protest. The grass was chill and damp against her body, but she didn't cast any Charms to protect herself from the mud and the rainwater.

_I will trust authority._

The line stretched red across the back of her hand, scabbed over with thin dark tissue. It itched horribly. Eight days down, six to go. Every night as dusk fell, her dinner would start to twist unhappily in her stomach, her entire body preparing itself to step into that office and take a knife to the back of her hand again. It would scar pink, paler than any other skin on her body, and anybody would be able to see it, read it and know.

But nobody, she thought, would ever be able to look at those pink lines and read the way her palms got damp as she climbed endless stairs towards Umbridge, how she had cried for hours after that first shocking detention. Eventually, all that those lines would be was a mute judgment.

There was something inside Daphne that was hardening, calcifying around the bone of grief that she had been carrying inside of herself since term began. It curled around her heart -- Pansy had always teased her about her soft heart, marveling that anybody so sensitive should choose Slytherin -- bracketing it, bringing her spine straighter until the night before, when she had been able to look Umbridge in the face as she set quill to paper.

_I will trust authority._

The gramophone was always playing in the Slytherin common room these days, Draco inexplicably generous where he had never before been one for sharing. The older students huddled around it after classes, pushing for the privilege of selecting the next record. Slowly, they had begun to learn the words to the albums played most often, growing familiar enough with their limited library that an entire chorus of voices could go up to debate the merits of Sarah Vaughn against Billie Holiday, and it was an easy choice to decide which of their six Tom Waits albums would best match the general mood.

As she lay by the lakeside, her hand drifting lazily below the surface of the water, Daphne sang quietly to herself. She had a good voice, not a great one, with a tendency to go a little flat. The song she sang was one of those that had been widely adopted by the Slytherins; it was a slow song, despite its driving drumbeat, within her range but rather ill-suited to her voice. The first time they'd heard the song, Draco had slid the album out of its all-white cover with reverence and forbidden everybody from touching it, although the rule had since been blithely ignored. It was a song that Daphne had set the needle to again and again, impatient with the slow growth of strength within her, curling up in the long, sagging couch nearest to the gramophone.

Slytherin House had lived in blithe ignorance of Muggle customs, Muggle dress but rock and roll had slipped through their defences, as it usually does.

Daphne's eyes drifted to her watch, which had slipped down her plump arm to dip cautiously into the lake. Nearly time to head in for dinner and from there to her detention, and Merlin knew that she_ did_, in fact, want a revolution.

-

-

Draco sneezed when he stepped into the library, but it didn't wipe the grin from his face. Madam Pince lifted her bony neck from the tome she was bent over and glared at him, and Draco hurriedly stepped past her, escaping down an unsteady aisle full of luridly coloured books. He made a beeline towards the back of the vast library, where the aisles narrowed and the books on the shelves started to smell a bit like soggy pastries. Terry was usually to be found there when one was looking for him, perusing some subject under a single corona of light that lit up the dust motes settled in his brown hair. Sometimes there were other students with him, part of the study group that Terry had formed some time ago (Granger was a part of it, although Draco forgave Terry for that; the two of them had developed an affable friendship years ago when Draco had discovered that although Terry wouldn't allow him to copy homework, he was only too happy to be sent off to research any random fancy, of which Draco had many.) but more often Terry was alone.

Today, he was accompanied by an untidy blonde head, which looked up when Draco approached and shook back a pair of absurd earrings that had fish dangling from them, their blue, bulging eyes an unsettling mirror of her own. "Hello, Loony," Draco greeted.

Luna Lovegood beamed at him. "Hi, Draco."

"Hi, Draco," Terry echoed. He gestured to a seat across from him, which Draco accepted before turning to Luna.

"Loony," he said seriously, "when I walked by Madam Pince today, I think I saw her frown sloping a bit on one side. It would be an attack of Teeny Tweedlebugs, burrowing into the line between her eyebrows. You should go and warn her of the danger she faces."

Luna stood and gathered her things. "Thank you, Draco," she said. "I hope I can catch one of them before her hair falls out and they disappear -- my father has been looking for a good specimen of Tweedlebug."

"So has mine," Draco agreed.

After Luna had taken her leave, Draco turned to Terry -- who had no clue that the only thing Draco's father had done recently was molder in the form that the Order of the Phoenix had transfigured him into -- and rubbed his hands together briskly. "What do you have for me then, Boot?"

"More on the bones of the spell, the casting of it. And some bad news. Which do you want first?"

"I hate bad news," Draco said promptly. "Give me the brainy things first."

Once Draco had put him onto the scent of the red wolf, Terry had worried ceaselessly at it. Undaunted by the fact that there didn't seem to be any direct references to the spell that had saved Harry and Draco's lives, Terry had started to compile the indirect references, updating Draco every week or so on his progress. In this way, they had uncovered the mysterious hours that Remus must have spent on a potion, imagined the nights he must have crept silently from the bed he shared with Sirius to the kitchen, to croon incantations over its bubbling surface. Draco's mind had supplied him with a strangely vivid picture of this: Remus' face lit from the potion below his chin as it stirred it, each ingredient he added a confirmation of the death he felt coming for him, his eyes steady and content. After he had consumed his labour of love, it would have eaten away at him from the inside out for three days, loosening away bits of his soul. This was what Draco had seen that day that Remus had performed what only seemed like a simple spell, tugging pieces of himself out of his chest in thick crimson threads and casting it over them.

"There is a way," Terry said slowly, excitement lighting up his face, "to call the soul back."

Draco's heart leapt into his throat. "What?" he said frantically. "How?"

Terry shook his head. "I'm not sure," he said mournfully. "The book wasn't clear on that point. And it didn't specify whether you can bring back the guardian, or the person's soul, or the person themselves. So whether you could actually resurrect Professor Lupin in some form -- I'm not sure. I really want to get a hold of this other book but Madam Pince told me --"

"What the hell did the book say, if it didn't tell you how to recall the soul, then?" Draco interrupted, aggravated, and then held up a hand. "If there's some annoyingly long story involved, I don't want to hear about it."

Terry frowned reproachfully. "You asked," he said. "Anyway, during the Norman Conquest there was this wizard whose --"

"Are you getting to the point soon? It's nearly dinnertime and I'd like to hear the end of this before I die of starvation," Draco said, and Terry pushed him, playfully. "All right, tell your stupid story. You can feed me bits of paper to stave off death until you finish, and then you can carry me on your back into the Great Hall and hand-feed me until I recover my --"

A cry of relief cut Draco's posturing off and made both of them jump. Millicent Bulstrode, closely followed by Theo Nott, made her way to the table and rested her thick hands on its scratched surface. "We've been looking all over for you," she said.

"What?" Draco said, his eyebrows raised. "Why have you been looking for me? If Greg or Vince have gotten lost again, Potter's got this brilliant map that shows --"

"It's about Potter," Theo said flatly.

Draco trailed off in mid sentence, blinking up at Theo. Absurdly, he wanted to ask if Harry was all right, if he had been hurt or something. He licked his lips. "Well?" he asked. "Are you going to tell me what he's done now?"

Theo and Millicent glanced towards Terry, who looked rather unnerved. Draco shook his head. "Terry's fine. What's Potter done?"

There was another beat of silence as Theo and Millicent exchanged glances. Draco didn't know whether to be annoyed or terrified; he'd never known either of them to be anything but brutally forthcoming. Theo was the one who spoke.

"Potter fucked Ginny Weasley on the Quidditch stands." His voice was flat, and it fell with surprising quiet into the dark space.

Terry giggled. "Was that what that was about?" he asked, grinning. "Ginny came into the library looking for Hermione about a week ago, looking all disheveled. They went behind a book stack and I went back to reading, but I did sort of wonder. She didn't look very happy, though -- Ginny, rather. I mean, she always looks sort of sour, but --"

Draco stood suddenly, awkwardly, hitting his hip on the lip of the table. He winced, his eyes focused on nothing.

"Draco?" Terry asked. "Are you all right?" Millicent glowered silently off into middle ground. Theo's eyes were focused on Draco. "Draco? What's the --" Terry's mouth closed with an audible click of his teeth, his eyes widening as understanding dawned on him.

There was a coldness in Draco's belly, a yawning numbness that crept up the sides of his cheeks and spread down into his fingertips. He looked to Theo, searching his friend's face for something, something to show that it wasn't true. Somewhere in the back of his mind he felt incredibly, amazingly stupid.

"I d --" he said, and then stopped. Tried again, glancing down at his dead arm as it tried to curl into a fist at his side. "I. He'll --"

"Everyone's going to the Great Hall for dinner," Theo said quietly. Draco nodded.

He paused when Terry blurted out his name, one hand braced on the corner of a bookshelf, Theo and Millicent behind him. Terry faltered, and Draco turned around to look at him, eyes glazed. "Draco, I forgot to tell you the bad news I had ... not that you might want to hear it now but -- I asked Professor Flitwick and he thinks he knows of one book that explains everything about the Tutela charm -- but Professor Snape has it. He borrowed it from Dumbledore during the summer, and he hasn't given it back. He might have given it to Lupin or taken it back after ..."

A harsh bark of laughter escaped Draco, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle it, the curve of his spine bending and heaving. Theo's arm went around his shoulders but Draco shrugged him off, straightening and giving a silent, wry nod to Terry before the three Slytherins passed from the library and into the halls.

The way was thronged with chattering students, eddying around them as they cut through the stone courtyard, ducking beneath spreading branches that shuddered under a cold rain. They walked quickly, Theo and Millicent mismatched bookends flanking him, occupying the spots that Vincent and Gregory usually held.

The voices of the people around him swallowed all thought, and it was with a curious detachment that Draco watched his own anger swell, both hands stretching to their full length, fingers spreading as their numbness faded to a black hatred. He welcomed it, gave it all of his attention as one foot mechanically went in front of the other; it stripped away the lingering traces of hooded figures standing in a ring within the forest, cleared the smell of burned flesh from his nose. As they drew close to the Great Hall, the crowds thickened around them, milling around the great doors leading to the Hall. Gregory and Vincent weren't there to push people out of the way for Draco, but Millicent's foreboding stare accomplished the task almost as quickly.

Gryffindor table was furthest away from the doors, furthest away from Slytherin, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff standing as barriers between the two. The first thing that Draco spotted was Ron Weasley, whose copper hair was a bright spot between one frizzy brown head and one unruly black one. Weasley's sister was further up the table, facing towards Harry and therefore towards Draco, her sullen face turned towards her empty plate.

Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, seated across from Harry and his cronies, looked up as Draco approached, but it wasn't until Draco clawed a hand into the neck of Harry's robes and yanked him backwards that the others took any notice.

"Was it good for you, Potter?" he spat into Harry's upturned face. "Was it worth it?"

Harry, who had started to smile after his first surprised gasp, paled. Up and down the lengths of the table, faces began to turn towards them. Gryffindor was curious but not overly surprised; most of them had been skeptical of this new experiment in inter-House relations and had been waiting for the two former enemies to come to blows for weeks.

"Go on," Draco hissed, leaning close. "Tell me that it's not what I think. Tell me that I don't understand."

Harry's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, but Weasley and Granger more than made up for his silence. Weasley grabbed Draco's arm and jerked him away, sending Draco staggering back. Millicent caught him, saving Draco from an undignified fall into the table behind them.

"Get away from Harry, you monster!" Granger screeched.

Draco straightened with dignity, smoothing the collar of his robes down. He didn't look at Harry when the other boy spoke, his voice ashamed: "Draco, I'm sorry."

Draco flushed, a fresh spasm of humiliation burning in his chest. His eyes flicked up, not to Harry, but across the table to Dean Thomas. "Thomas," he said loudly, so that his voice would carry down the table, "have you heard that you've been getting Potter's sloppy seconds these days?"

Thomas' eyes widened, and his head jerked to the side to find Ginny Weasley, who pushed herself away from the table abruptly and fled the room. Draco watched sympathetically as Thomas went after her. Harry's eyes were hard, his hands raised to warn off his friends. "Why did you do that?" he said hotly.

Draco snorted. "Better that he know, wouldn't you think?"

"I was going to tell you," Harry said in a low voice.

"Oh, I'm sure," Draco scoffed. "That would have been nicer than finding out a week after _everyone else at Hogwarts_. Did you forget? That test in Care of Magical Creatures put you off your stride? _Say something_, Potter! The least you can do is fight for it!"

He was dimly aware that all heads in the Great Hall had turned towards them, mouths open or whispering busily. Millicent shifted uneasily beside him, unused to being so exposed.

"It was _you_ --" Harry stopped, glanced around with hooded eyes. "Come on, we can't talk here, everybody's watching --"

He rose to his knees onto the bench and reached for Draco, and when Draco pushed him Harry fell hard, his elbow landing on the corner of a dish and skidding it across the table. Granger gasped.

"Don't you ever, _ever_," Draco growled, "come near me again."

He stormed from the silent hall, drawing his friends behind him, and nobody followed them.

-

-

They had been yelling for a while now, but it kept coming back to two things. With Hermione, it was disgust: _how could you sleep with _Draco Malfoy_ of all people? _With Ron, it was betrayal:_ how could you not tell us?_ Harry buried his face in his hands and tried to decide which one was worse.

At the moment, it was Ron's turn to yell a bit. Hermione sat on Ron's bed, her arms folded across her chest, her face furrowed as though she was replaying hundreds of conversations between Harry and Draco in her mind, trying to uncover how she could possibly have missed something like this. Ron was on his feet, hands clenched at his sides, his freckles invisible through the flush on his face. Neville, inexplicably, had followed them back to the privacy of their rooms and was sitting next to Hermione with a serious expression on his face.

"Draco fucking Malfoy!" Ron yelled. "I guess I should be glad -- if you're seeing that arsehole, at least it's not like you've really been friends with such a slimy --"

"We _are_ really friends!" Harry shouted back, a small voice in the back of his head keeping him from adding that Draco had been a better friend than either of them lately.

"Oh, so you're _friends_ with my sister then, too?" Ron sneered.

_"No!"_

Either answer would have been dangerous. Ron's face darkened. "Oh, you think you're too good for Ginny? What's wrong with her? Not man enough for you?"

Hermione joined back in before Harry could retort that yes, actually, that was exactly what the problem had been. Her voice overrode the uncomfortable churning of feelings in the pit of Harry's belly, the sudden bright need to see Draco and make everything ok again. He took a deep breath and tried to remember what Draco had told him, that wizards didn't have the same sort of ... feelings about gay people that Muggles did. He glanced over at Neville and was reassured to see that the other boy didn't look angry or disgusted. Ron and Hermione, however, were more than enough of both.

"I don't know what makes you believe that you can trust Malfoy," Hermione said, "but Malfoy has never been anything but a bossy, overbearing sneak and I know that he has some sort of plan up his sleeve to get back in favour with his father's crowd."

Harry snorted. "You mean the crowd that beat him almost to death and lit his best friend on fire? What makes you think they'd want anything to do with him, even if he did still want to be a Death Eater? Do you think they light girls on fire just for fun, as a test to make sure he really wants to follow Voldemort?" He bit down on reminding Hermione that murdering one of Voldemort's top followers -- and Draco's own father -- was probably not the way to endear himself to the Death Eaters.

"Even if he's not allied with the You-Know-Who anymore," Hermione said stubbornly, "he's still up to no good, mark my words."

"When has Malfoy ever been up to any good?" Ron snorted. "I should have known he had such -- such designs on your virtue. I bet this is what he wanted all along! The whole time he's been pretending to be your enemy he's really wanted to -- to lead you down a path of sin and iniquity!"

Harry stared at Ron, his mouth open. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Look, Harry," Hermione broke in, throwing an irritated glance towards Ron, "That may be a bit of an exaggeration but the point is, Malfoy is bad news and there's no arguing around that, right? Whatever you think is, you know, between the two of you," here Ron made a noise of horror, "it isn't _real_. Please, think sensibly, Harry."

"I have been!" Harry shouted. "It's you two who have these weird theories and absolutely no idea what you're talking about!"

"We don't know because you didn't tell us!" Ron shouted back. "We didn't hear one bloody word about you and your _boyfriend_ -- that's a nice way to treat your friends, I don't think!"

"That's because you wouldn't have understood! It would have been exactly like this, with you sounding like your mum and her scarlet women and Hermione treating this -- this thing like it's just like figuring out who the Heir of Slytherin was but it's not like that at all! It's --" He fumbled for the right words for long minutes, his hands raised as though he could pluck them from the air.

"I don't want to hear about it," Ron said angrily. "I don't want to know what you get up to with that weasel in your free time."

"Then LEAVE ME ALONE!" Harry bellowed. "GET OUT OF HERE AND LEAVE ME ALONE! I'm sick of all of this!"

The argument petered out quickly, both sides refusing to be budged. Ron threatened on behalf of his sister, swore that he'd put Malfoy in his place. Hermione pleaded for reason and advocated a vast, sexually-driven conspiracy to turn Harry over to Voldemort. Eventually they both left in disgust, and Harry flung himself down on his bed and prepared for a prolonged sulk. He looked at Neville with a hostile eye, wishing that the other boy would take the hint and leave him in peace. Neville showed no signs of leaving, but fidgeted awkwardly.

"What, Neville?" Harry said at last. "You want to tell me what an idiot I've been too?"

Neville shook his head. "What, then?" Harry said aggressively. "I thought that wizards weren't supposed to care about ... stuff like that?"

Neville frowned. "Stuff like what?" he asked, puzzled.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "You know."

"I don't think Ron really cares about that part," Neville said thoughtfully.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "He said that Draco was leading me down a path of sin and iniquity."

Neville laughed. "Isn't it more about, you know, that it's Malfoy? Maybe he's just jealous."

"Of Malfoy?" Harry squeaked.

Neville blushed, but went on resolutely. "No! No, no. Just that you're ... doing things and he isn't."

Harry thought about that, turning it around in his brain. "Not that that matters anymore," he said after a while, bitterly. "Draco hates me now."

"Are you going to go after him?" Neville asked softly.

Harry shook his head, mutely, staring at his feet. He had felt _so ashamed_ over the past week. He had, guiltily, taken to avoiding Draco, certain each time he saw him that Draco would instantly _know_. Days had passed and Draco had remained blissfully unaware of what Harry had done, but Harry's guts cramped painfully whenever he thought of it, and it had only gotten worse as the week had worn on. Some little part of him was relieved to have it all out in the open, even though Draco's reaction had been the worst Harry could imagine, short of physical violence. Most of him, however, was only sickened: by what he'd said and done to all of his friends, by the thought that everybody would be _talking_ now about how Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were shirt lifters together. Everybody would _know_.

"Neville, you ... you don't hate me or think it's disgusting or anything, right?" Harry asked, wincing.

Neville smiled and shook his head.

They sat quietly for some time before they heard a footfall on the stair and looked up to see Seamus' sandy head peering around the door frame. He looked relieved to see that nobody was yelling, and came in without being invited and sat down across from Harry.

"Well," he said casually. "This is all a bit of a mess, isn't it?"

Harry lifted his head and glared at Seamus, who took it in stride. "It's all over the castle now, Harry," he continued. "Everybody's talkin' about it, but I don't think that most of 'em have figured out the thing about you and Draco being ..."

"Poofs?" Harry said sourly.

Seamus shrugged. "Hardly anybody actually heard what Malfoy said to you, they just know it has something to do with Ginny, so they're all makin' up their own reasons for it. Dean's pretty angry, though."

"Did they break up?" Neville asked.

Seamus nodded, his eyebrows high. "Only took a minute or two. Dean'd heard about enough and once he got the story out of Ginny he wanted nothing to do with it. I steered him outside, told him he should go over to the other side of the lake and scream for a bit. I don't think he's that angry with you though, Harry."

Harry stared unhappily at the ground. "Draco is, though." The confession forced itself unwillingly from his mouth. Harry licked his lips. "Is he ... are people talking about him too?"

"Not really," Seamus said.

"I guess people expect Malfoy to be a bit odd," Neville said. "He's always been a bit out there, hasn't he? And he has seemed to have a hard time of it this term."

Harry stared at his hands. Neville and Seamus stared openly at him, waiting for some signal, some sort of -- what? Harry didn't know. He felt their eyes on his bowed head, their expectations only another weight added to everything else that had happened that day.

Seamus sighed and reached across the beds to pat Harry on the shoulder. "I've talked the house elves into making pies and things for me any time, and they'll slip us some firewhiskey if we ask really nice. How about it?"

Harry glanced up at him, forcing a smile onto his face. "Do you think they'll make lemon cake?"

"Only one way to find out," Seamus said, grinning.

-

-

They curled themselves around him in layers, scattering across the dungeons. Blaise, disassociated, glowering in the common room with Millicent. Daphne and Tracey sitting by the silent gramophone, risking glances over their shoulders, late arrivals to the upset in the Hall. Theo, Vincent and Gregory in the fifth year dorms, Theo on his own bed, Vincent in his and Greg sitting at the foot of Draco's, his hand cupped around Draco's ankle. Draco was quiet now, although when they had followed him back to their room he had flung himself on the bed and drawn his knees up to his chest and cried, hard. Theo had sat with him until Gregory and Vincent, who had come late to dinner and entirely missed the scene between Harry and Draco, had arrived in a state of panic.

They had let Draco cry himself out, messily, his face red and puffy, offering him one of Blaise's towels to wipe his nose on. After a while, Theo had tried to get Draco to talk, tried to hold his friend up or just hold him, but Draco had shaken his head and pushed Theo away.

When you've crawled up from the depths of your own mind and found a sort of balance against the grind of daily life, it's easy to believe that when your tenuous hold on peace is shaken, it has all been based on a lie that was compounded again and again until it's impossible to tell where the lie began and ended. It's wrapped itself so deeply around you that it would be easier to think that all of that happiness and joy that you've struggled for is just as false, and you're that much more of an idiot for having bought into it all.

The scabs that Draco had built up over the events of his summer tore away painfully, leaving a wound as raw and weeping as his hand had been. When he cried, it wracked his entire body, but it came without words or explanations, the hurt going deeper than Harry, than Remus -- deeper than his father and Pansy. And so Draco pushed Theo away, and when he got his legs under him, he went to the foot of his bed and opened his trunk. Gregory and Vincent watched him as he dug within it and drew something out in his fist. Draco glanced at Greg from under his eyelashes as he laid back down on his side, but he didn't say anything. He tucked the seashell that he took from Remus' house against his ear, and waited for the sound of the ocean to drown out all thoughts.


	8. So That You Could Remember Him

**Title:** The Spinning World: So That You Could Remember Him (7?)  
**Author: **hans bekhart  
**Rating:** NC-17 for explicit sexual content, mention of character death, mention of rape.  
**Summary:** In the sequel to "Casualties of War," Harry and Draco's fifth year at Hogwarts has begun, and they must try to rebuild the lives they used to lead. In which Draco makes a new friend, Harry gets a pep talk from a half-giant and Terry Boot contemplates strangulation as a method for controlling annoying Slytherins. **Notes:** Super thanks to thedelphi and lj user"seaoftethys"> for beta'ing! Feedback and reviews are very much appreciated. Also, please check out my LiveJournal (hansbekhart), where I have a soundtrack to the first act of The Spinning World posted.

-

-

Remus had waited for him in the blackness of the garage, the hot end of his cigarette his only light. It traced an arc from his long, nervous fingers and up to his mouth and shed a brief light on the short beard around his chin and mouth. It wasn't a neat beard or a deliberate one. It was dirty and uneven and golden in the light of his cigarette. When Sirius finally found him, Remus had been waiting long enough to be angry, but then again they were always angry with each other these days.

He stood when Sirius addressed him, flicking the cigarette carelessly away, pushing himself up with a hand on the supple leather of the motorbike's seat. Sirius circled him warily, his features set in a hard line despite the whisky on his breath. His voice was low and fast, muttered accusations veiled behind their endless argument. Remus was brief, maddeningly cool, answering Sirius' interrogation without actually saying anything of meaning.

The garage smelled of petrol and fine leather which creaked beneath Remus' worn palms when he leaned forward, tormenting Sirius with the curve of a mocking smile and the slide of dirty fingers across the bike's surface. The light that spread across the oily floor picked up the fine hairs along the line of his throat, glinted against bared white teeth. Sirius' shoulders hunched, his arms spread, growing bigger and more threatening in the dim light but the first person to move was Remus, striking forward with inhuman speed and snatching the front of Sirius' jacket to haul him close.

Sharp hip bones ground together. Sirius hissed surprise, but Remus only laughed, throat roughened by the cigarette and the recent moon, and Sirius punched him, fist glancing along the side of the jaw, struggling for dominance against the solid weight of the motorcycle behind Remus. They fought almost silently, Remus' breathless laughter muffled in the small room, colliding sharp elbows and bruised knuckles until Remus managed to pin Sirius' arms up against his chest and bring sharp teeth against the side of Sirius' throat. Sirius stiffened, fingers splaying against Remus' collarbone before clenching on his collar and tilting his head back. Eyes shut and lips parted, Remus' mouth slid down Sirius' neck, biting hard enough to leave bruises but never (almost) hard enough to break the skin.

With a growl, Sirius' hands shot down, twisting Remus' arm hard behind his back and forcing him around, hand on the back of Remus' neck pushing him down, bending him over the bike while he fumbled, cursing, with the zip of his jeans. Remus scrabbled for purchase, nose pressed into leather and knees knocking painfully against the body of the bike. His laugh turned into a groan when Sirius pushed into him, dry but for the clear slick on the end of his cock, hard enough to tear but Remus pushed back anyway, driving Sirius harder into himself. Sirius made no sound but a long jagged growl, his fist buried in Remus' hair, pulling his neck into a painful angle. Remus made enough noise for the both of them, bitter laughter still lurking around the edges of his moans and cries for more, _harder, Sirius, more._ His cock was trapped beneath his belly, sliding between the rough fabric of his coat and the supple leather of the seat.

At first, Snape had tried to avoid this sort of memory. The first time he had called one up in his Pensieve, the sight of Black taking Remus had sent him reeling away, hissing with rage and jealousy. He had been sickened but drawn back helplessly, hating himself for it before spinning elaborate webs of justification. At first, he had been smug in his knowledge, his power over Black, who still had no idea what Snape was stealing from him, had no idea that Snape could see him at his most vulnerable. He'd watched Remus' face contorted in orgasm, smile in the afterglow. Remus Lupin had always been unattainable, after all, even when he had been alive and still in the arms of Black, even when under the protective watch of James Potter. The years after Potter's death had vanished as Snape had bent his nose to a job that he despised and Lupin had done ... whatever it was he had done. Traveled the world. Had a lover who wrote to him in passionate, needy letters. Smoothed down all of his rough, animal edges and donned the mask of a harmless academic.

Snape had seen through it effortlessly, but to his astonishment had discovered himself just as easily seen through. Remus had _recognised_ him, took hold of the boy Snape could barely remember being and refused to let him retreat back behind the walls that everyone else respected.

Black's jeans had stayed around his skinny hips as he thrust roughly into Remus, his belt buckle clinking against itself. Remus' jeans had slid down his thighs, ludicrously. Snape's cock was heavy in his hand as he stroked himself, watching the snap of Black's hips, the slide of cock in and out of Remus. There was blood on the slick shaft, the slightest smear of blood on the inside of Remus' thigh, and Snape panted harshly through his mouth, hand moving faster.

His attention had drawn so tightly to the push and thrust of bodies that at first he didn't notice when Remus turned his head. The light caught on the sharp curve of his cheekbone and Snape's hand slowed, faltered. Their eyes locked across nearly twenty years of time and death itself.

Remus stared Snape straight in the face, eerily accurate, as though the young man knew, knew that some day someone would watch him and Black fuck on top of Black's motorbike. A cold shudder ran down Snape's spine and his hand jerked around his cock, helplessly, mouth open. Snape came hard and Remus followed almost immediately, nails digging into the seat, crying out in what sounded more like a sob of relief.

He looked away while Black finished. He pulled out with a grunt, stepping away to fasten his jeans closed. Remus straightened but didn't move away from the motorbike, his fingers stealing down between his legs to cautiously investigate himself. They didn't look at each other, and Snape let his attention drift.

Black's voice startled him. "Why are you here, anyway?" he said tiredly.

Remus shrugged, pulling a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket as he slipped his jeans up his narrow hips. He light the cigarette with his wand before he answered. "Just got back into town," he said. "Needed to -- see a familiar face, I guess."

* * *

Draco didn't cut his hair, and life went on. November dragged its feet into a cold December. It snowed for the first six days of December, and Harry and Draco still had not spoken. It had been three days before Harry had gathered up the courage to approach Draco, only to lose his nerve halfway towards the knot of Slytherins gathered around Hagrid's hut. As days passed and he failed to find the words to ask for forgiveness, it had just seemed easier and easier to let it go for another day and then another, until it felt almost pointless to try and catch Draco's eye in class. Their months living in Remus' home, their weeks together at Hogwarts seemed to vanish until Harry had begun to wonder if he had dreamed it all.

Draco began to forget as well. The reasons he had nursed a bitter crush on Harry for so many years faded until all he could remember was what an arrogant prat Potter was, how he still didn't know the names of all the people he had been going to school with for five years. How he had always thought he was better than Draco anyway. As the term trudged on he fell back to taunting Potter when he saw him, although he didn't pursue encounters the way he used to.

Without Potter bringing him out of himself, obliviously demanding his attention in the here and now, Draco forgot himself and became an imitation of who had been, before Pansy's death. He tripped first years, tormented Gryffindors but avoided the Hufflepuff house, which was still vaguely annoyed with him for the fight with Stebbins. He spent his days without thought and his friends looked on, worried or involved in their own problems.

Draco found himself alone, early one Saturday morning. He had no detentions and he had only intermittently been doing homework, so he wrapped himself up in the warmest clothing of his housemates and went outside to play in the snow. He wandered far from the castle down to the courtyard of stone and the fields beyond it. He scooped up snow between his gloves and tossed it over his head, lifted his face to feel the snow flakes falling on his skin. His cheeks flushed in the cold, bringing a healthy glow to his face and he looked more alive than he had for some time. The world was silent around him, a thin string of smoke curling into the sky from the castle the only sign of life.

Once, when Draco was very small, his mother had taken him to the snow as a surprise. It had been just the two of them, when Lucius had been away and they had both been lonely. She had woken him before dawn and tapped her wand against his forehead to keep him warm, and then taken him in her arms and taken them to the North Pole. That was what she told him at the time, at least, and he had believed it until she had accidentally let it slip that it had been Norway.

Draco had been young enough that he hadn't yet started craving his father's presence and approval, when it had been guaranteed and not withheld as punishment. Narcissa had always loved him fiercely and so he had always taken her love for granted.

Draco let his shoulders slump, standing still in the field with snow up around his ankles. He was cold and wet enough that his healthy glow had faded to a snow-burned red, but his smile was blissful as he ground his feet from side to side to sink deeper into the powder. His eyes tracked snowflakes as the wind grabbed hold and flung them to the ground.

He hadn't heard the tread of feet across the snow and he didn't hear when they drew up short, startled, along the high wall of arches bordering the field. They were silent and still for a long time, watching Draco standing with his face tipped up towards the snow. And so when Draco's thoughts moved towards hot cocoa in the common room and he turned around to return to the castle, he was so shocked to find himself being observed that he squealed like a little girl.

"What the hell, Thomas!" he cried, when he had mostly recovered. "How long have you been standing there?"

Dean Thomas gaped up at Draco from the ground. He had leapt backwards in surprise when Draco screamed, and slipped on the icy ground. "I wasn't following you," he said, wincing as he pushed himself back to his feet.

"That's wonderful," Draco said, frowning. "But although that's crossed my mind in the past, it wasn't what I asked."

"You've thought I was following you before?" Dean asked, surprised.

Draco stopped a few feet away from him, his arms crossed over his chest. "I've seen you staring at me," he accused.

Dean laughed. "Everybody stares at you these days."

Draco beamed. "Well, that's true. But most people stopped doing it a few weeks into term. You _keep_ staring. Are you going to tell me something artistic and flattering, to explain your bad manners? I mean, I think pretty highly of myself but it's starting to get a bit weird, Thomas."

"Well, I do like your scars, artistically, I mean," Dean said frankly, leaning in close to Draco. "But the real reason I keep staring is because I'd like to lick them. _Aaaaaall over."_

Draco stared at him, openmouthed, until Dean burst out laughing.

"Actually, I was going to the speaking stones," Dean said, eventually. "I go out there sometimes, you know, to think."

"Yeah," Draco said wisely, "it's a good place to feel sorry for yourself, isn't it?"

Dean only grinned, his eyes flickering towards the ground. "Exactly."

Draco pushed himself up onto the stone seat carefully, balancing most of his weight on his good arm. "I sulk anywhere I like," he said.

"I've noticed," Dean replied.

"It's a privilege," Draco said loftily. "For the exquisitely groomed and talented like myself."

Dean said nothing, but settled next to Draco in companionable silence, tucking the notebook he held under his arm. He pulled his knees up to his chest and they stared out into the snow in strangely companionable silence. After a time, Dean dug in his pocket for a grubby pencil and began to draw, absently. Draco watched the pencil track across the paper, unerring lines forming the contours of a hand, the softness of a hooded eye.

"Aren't you Muggle?" Draco asked thoughtfully.

Dean considered this. "I thought I was," he said finally. "Found out in second year that my dad was a wizard. He was killed before I was born, though."

Draco hmm'ed, but made no further comment.

Dean's hand hesitated, slowed. He stared at the pad of paper beneath his pencil, his eyebrows drawing together. "You ..." he said slowly, looking down at Draco with his jaw set. "You were there when Professor Lupin died, weren't you?"

Draco shifted a bit. "Not exactly," he said. "It was during the night. I was asleep."

Dean nodded and said nothing further. He met Draco's eyes evenly, not asking or pleading but not looking away, either. Draco drew back.

"You're funny and you're a good artist, but I don't _know_ you," he said in a low voice. "You don't have any right to ask me about all that. I don't have to tell you anything."

"Nobody told me anything," Dean said. His voice was just as quiet as Draco's, but his words were desperate, choked off. "Nobody _ever_ tells us anything. Seamus and Neville and me've been sharing that room with them for five years but we're not really all friends. Friendly, of course, but not friends. We get the same stupid half-truths from Dumbledore at the end of every year about what Harry Potter and his friends have been up to, just like everyone else here. They've saved us from You-Know-Who again and Harry and Ron never told us anything, even though we sleep only a few feet away from them. It's stupid and I'm _tired_ of it. I feel like -- like a supporting character in a book that can't be arsed to give any bloody personality to its supporting characters. Malfoy, I know that we've never really talked before but --_ please_."

Draco's lips quirked in a thin smile. "Well, I wouldn't say we don't have anything in common. We've both been screwed over by Harry Potter, after all."

Dean laughed, a soft huff of air. "Think of it that way, then. All you're doing is ... proving that you're better than Harry."

Draco burst out laughing. "You're pretty smart, for a Gryffindor."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Dean answered. His fingers were curled tightly around his notebook, waiting for judgment. Draco pulled his cap down more tightly around his ears and shoved his gloved fingers into his pockets, considering.

"There was a painting that was hung in the study," he said abruptly. "Of a grindylow. It wasn't signed, but I saw the thing you made of the cannibals that was in his office, third year, and I knew that you made it. It had a nice frame and everything. It was right over his desk."

Dean's breath caught, and he glanced down at his feet, silent.

"We talked a lot over the summer. In the beginning I didn't want anything to do with Potter and he didn't want anything to do with me, but Remus -- one could really talk to him. You knew that already, I imagine." Draco paused. His eyes tracked the fall of the snowflakes towards the earth, coming more quickly now.

"Harry said that he was sick," Dean said softly. "That he never got better."

Draco's nod was so slight that Dean would have missed it, if he hadn't been watching Draco carefully. "He never showed it. Harry and I only found out a few days before he -- died." Draco blinked rapidly, remembered his flat denial when Remus had finally told them that he was sick, his unshakable belief that Remus wouldn't be dying because Professor Snape would know how to save him. Even after everything that had happened to him, Draco had still wanted to believe, to trust in those around him, and he didn't quite know when he'd lost that desire. Somewhere between predawn light that turned the world to an empty and unforgiving place, and snow stained with ancient blood, something had slipped away from him.

Draco bit his tongue, longing surging up from his stomach so intensely that it was agonizing. It bubbled and moved inside his body and drew his arms close around his waist but he let it come, welcomed and examined it. He missed Remus _so much_ but now, sitting in the icy morning with a boy that he hardly knew, he was, bizarrely, comforted. The grief was shared, he could see it in Dean's face and the curve of his fingers around his notebook.

"I thought he was an artist," Dean said quietly. "Because he had such long fingers and he was so nice. He knew my name the very first day of class and he used to let me sit with him while he graded papers. I made up this whole history for him -- I've never told anybody this, not even Seamus. It's ridiculous and I won't mind if you make fun of me for it. But he -- he was a good teacher," Dean finished lamely. He turned away and swiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand. Draco looked away politely, and they lapsed back into a silence that was only slightly embarrassed.

"You don't seem to be all that angry with Potter," Draco said, after some time had passed. "If I had ever thought you and I would have a heart-to-heart sort of conversation, I would have expected it to be about what a prat Harry Potter is."

Dean chuckled faintly. "Oh, well, I imagine that's mostly what you talk about. I wanted to give you a break from your favourite subject."

"It's such a rich and varied subject, though," Draco said, reasonably. "Ripe for scathing observations and hilarious pantomime."

"I'm sure it must be," Dean returned, "since you've gotten so much mileage out of it."

"He makes an easy target," Draco said modestly. Curiosity, though, prompted him to dig further. "But you wanted to ask me about Remus rather than say anything about Potter and the Weaslette?"

Dean shrugged. "Professor Lupin was more important. What am I supposed to say about what Ginny did? She's a shallow bitch and he's an arsehole and it hurts but I'm not awfully surprised, Malfoy."

"I was pretty surprised."

"That's because you don't know Ginny very well. She has almost as high of an opinion of herself as you do." Draco let that pass without comment. "She seems, you know, clever and funny but she can be really childish, too. She told me that she'd known all along that you and Harry were going out. And she told me that she'd gone out with me to make Harry notice her," he added bitterly.

"So are they ..." Draco swallowed. "Are they going out now?"

Dean shook his head. "She didn't want to tell me about it, but I don't really think Harry's much interested in girls."

"He was interested enough in Weasley," Draco said viciously. "I heard all about it."

Dean was watching Draco thoughtfully. "He didn't have sex with her, if that's what you've heard." Draco's head jerked up, eyes wide. "She said she would have, if he'd wanted to. But she cli -- climbed on top of him and he pushed her off and flew off with hardly a word."

Draco met Dean's gaze, searching the other's eyes for any hint of a lie. He looked away after a long time, rubbing his hands together slowly. "It doesn't change anything," he said.

Dean shook his head. "It didn't for me, either."

* * *

Harry trudged down the hill towards Hagrid's hut, unaware that he was missing Dean and Draco by a scarce hour or so. The unlikely pair had taken themselves off to scrounge up a late breakfast and cocoa, leaving no sign of their presence except for the deep footprints Draco had made in the field, which were nearly covered up by the time Harry made his way down the path. Harry's scarf was pulled up to his nose and his hands were curled into fists in his pockets. He scuffed irritably along the snow, kicking a bit at the drifts much as Draco had done only a short time earlier. He had left Gryffindor Tower in as little huff as he could manage, smothered by the fire and warmth and cheer.

Life had mostly gone back to normal for Harry Potter. Christmas holidays were coming and, according to Hermione, O.W.L.S would be there before they knew it. She had constructed a rigorous study schedule for Ron and Harry, which they had of course ignored. Dean wasn't exactly talking to him, but he would stay in the same room with Harry and that was enough. The Hogwarts rumor mill had come up with a hundred reasons as to why Draco Malfoy had attacked Harry in the Great Hall and told him never to come near him again, but with the principal players staying quiet, nobody except for Eloise Midgen hit upon the idea that it was a love affair gone sour, and she wasn't paid any attention to. Ron and Hermione had come back to Harry after a few days; they'd been friends long enough that it had never really been in doubt and as long as they kept away from the still-tender subject of Malfoy, they had gotten along fine.

It had been a few days since Harry had last sent an owl to Sirius, but he hadn't heard anything from his godfather yet. Sirius' most recent letters had been full of angry, nearly incoherent ramblings about how Snape was desecrating Remus' home and driving Sirius to madness. "One day," one had warned, "you're going to go to your Potions classroom and find that Snivellus has been turned into an enormous slug that belches faeces and can't speak except to sing the words to "I Am the Walrus" over and over in the voice of a six year old girl."

Harry's first thought had been to share this vision with Draco and get a few laughs out of it -- Draco was sure to come up with a more fitting song for Professor Slug to sing -- before he remembered that, of course, he couldn't do that now.

It had been something similar that had gotten him out of the castle and into the snow to visit Hagrid. He had the slightest inkling of what a fool he was -- he had spent quite a bit of time, when he was with Draco, missing his old life, and now that Draco was gone he spent most of his time missing Draco. As thick as Harry could be at times, he knew that he had missed his window of opportunity to get Draco back, had been too afraid to try. Needless to say, that knowledge hadn't done much to improve Harry's temper.

Hagrid welcomed Harry into his hut with a weak grin that was mostly obscured by the enormous slab of meat that was covering his eye. He peeled it off to show off a spectacular black eye, his eyes darting side to side as he explained that the, er, thestrals were actin' up a bit.

"Are they dangerous?" Harry asked. Neville had told him a little about thestrals in the carriage ride to Hogwarts, but he'd missed most of Hagrid's lecture the day he had taken them into the Forbidden Forest.

"Nah, o' course not. They jus' have a bad reputation," Hagrid said scornfully, slapping the steak back over his eye and turning to make Harry some tea.

"Then how did you get hurt?" Harry said. Hagrid stiffened. He peeked hesitantly over his shoulder at Harry.

"'S not important," he said gruffly. "Anyway, how've yeh bin? I heard yeh're fightin' with Malfoy again. I thought you two were friends now or somethin'."

Harry took a rock cake and tried to crumble it onto his plate. A chunk of dough broke off and wedged itself painfully under his fingernail. "Yeah," he said quietly. "We were friends for a while. Then I did something really stupid."

Hagrid's bushy eyebrows rose -- at least, the one visible rose. "You did somethin' stupid?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry said hotly. Anger and embarassment flared hotly in his stomach, his temper already stretched nearly to its limit. "You mean I do stupid things all the time, right?"

Hagrid chuckled, raising a massive hand to ward off Harry's outburst. "Nah, o' course not. Just that I woulda expected Malfoy t'be the one makin' all the trouble between the two of yeh. I know teachers aren' supposed t'say stuff like this, but somethin' always seemed kinda strange about him."

Harry sucked on his hurt finger, frowning. Something vague and uncomfortable rolled restlessly through his mind, too shameful to put into words. Hagrid's hut smelled comfortingly of wet fur and old ale, mixed up in Harry's mind with memories of being small and overwhelmed, hot and eager on the chase of Slytherin's heir of the mystery of Professor Quirrel, but all he could think of was how much he missed the smell of tea and chocolate and calf-bound books stacked haphazardly along mismatched furniture. It was embarassing and Harry felt obscurely ungrateful. He ducked his head, ashamed to find his eyes prickling fiercely.

Hagrid, to his credit, kept quiet and adjusted his steak more comfortably over his eye. Harry wiped his eyes quickly with the sleeve of his jacket, wetting his face with the snow that had melted there. He took a sip of tea, uncertain of his hands and of Hagrid. As he had gotten older, Harry and his friends had visited Hagrid less and less, shared fewer of the things that happened to them as they grew. He didn't know how to tell Hagrid that he had fucked up badly, that he had had sex with Draco Malfoy and then hurt him, that he had never really known what it was to miss someone so badly that it made you sick and kept you up all night. He wasn't even sure if Hagrid would understand how he felt, and so Hagrid's next words came as a surprise.

"No one expects yeh t'be perfect, Harry," Hagrid said.

Harry's head jerked up and he laughed, harshly. "Yes, they do. Everybody expects me to be perfect, they think I'm some sort of hero. Nobody thinks that it was all my fault that Draco hates me, everybody just expects that he did something horrible."

Hagrid's expression didn't change. A small, gentle smile had curled around his wide mouth and he looked Harry square in the eye. "They're not the ones tha' matter, an' you know it."

Harry stared at him, blinking rapidly. He glanced away after a moment, ducking his head. "Draco said that he liked me because I wasn't perfect, because I was different than he thought I was. Because I wasn't 'Perfect Potter.'" His mouth twisted bitterly. "I guess I proved that one."

"Nah," Hagrid said. "Ever'body makes mistakes. Look at me! I've done lots o' stupid things in my time. I tell yeh, this --" he gestured at his face, "-- this's been a thumpin' great one. But none o' that matters. Yeh've got yer friends an' that's what counts, eh? No more of that, now. Yeh'll get me cryin' next and then nothin will've been set right."

Another cup of tea found Harry in a calmer state, Hagrid carrying the conversation meaninglessly about Aragog and his monstrous children. "They jus' get a mite upset, y'know, when things come inter their territory, although why they think he'd want ter take over their ruddy nest I don' know, an' no cause at all to take it out on me when all I'm doin' is lookin' fer 'im --"

Hagrid stopped abruptly, looking pained. Harry grinned. "You're going to let it slip sometime, Hagrid. Just tell me what you're looking for in the Forest and what's been hurting you."

"I can't," Hagrid said, exasperated. "It's dangerous, and I don' want yeh runnin' off and gettin' hurt on account o' me."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm not a little kid anymore," he said with emphasis. "I'm _fifteen_. I -- know better now." He believed it as he said it, all memories of spying on a _mostly safe _werewolf gone from his head, but he couldn't help the slight catch in his voice.

Hagrid's eyebrows raised skeptically, but he stared down at the tea cup dwarfed between his hands silently. "Over the summer, me an' Madam Maxine were sent t'talk to the giants on Dumbledore's behalf. Y'know, make some sorta peace with 'em so they don' join up with You-Know-Who. Nothin' really came of it -- long story -- but I found somethin' really important and brought 'im back with me."

"What -- who was it?" Harry asked.

Hagrid glanced up at him and away, and then pulled the steak off of his eye with an embarassed grunt. The eye was nearly swollen shut with a thick, yellow fluid that seeped from its corners, and the angle of Hagrid's cheekbone was distended and painful looking. "It's my brother," he said at last. "Half-brother, I mean. He was livin' with the tribe we went t'talk to, but he's small fer his age an' he was gettin' picked on by th'other giants so I ... I brough' him back wi' me. I thought it'd be alright -- I could teach 'im ter talk an' ev'rythin' but he -- he ran away an' he's bin loose in th' Forest ever since. I caught up with 'im a couple days ago an' that's how I got this." He gestured at his eye.

"Your brother did that?" Harry asked, astonished. Ron had told him a bit of the savagery of giants after they had accidentally overheard Hagrid and Madam Maxine during the Yule Ball, but his memory of Ron's revulsion had been overshadowed by Rita Skeeter's article and Draco Malfoy's taunting. Harry hadn't grown up hearing about giants, how they had gone willingly to Voldemort's side during his first rise to power, how they had come out of the hills and ground straight through villages, how when the Aurors had come they had been torn to pieces and then eaten. Remus Lupin might have been able to tell Harry how little respect giants had for their own kin and how easily they would hurt or kill their own parents, brothers or sisters, but Remus Lupin was gone and so Harry believed Hagrid when he said that his brother could be tamed, and Harry let Hagrid swear him to silence.

They passed the rest of the afternoon with tea and reminiscences and between stories of his parents and Hagrid's memories of his own first years at Hogwarts, Harry forgot all about Hagrid's brother. By the time he remembered Hagrid's bruises and his search through the Forbidden Forest for a missing giant, it would be far too late.

* * *

Terry Boot was a patient person. He loved learning of all schools and methods, endured the oddities of his House with a sort of eager patience, waiting to see what Morag McDougal or Lisa Turpin or Luna Lovegood would do next, and nursed a secret love of Muggle cigarettes that he shared only with Anthony Goldstein. He was honest and hard-working, if perpetually distracted by something or other. He had been friends with Draco Malfoy for most of their years at Hogwarts, having been fascinated in first year by this strange little boy with terrible manners who hated all Muggleborns with a viscious passion and yet seemed to be considered an alright sort. Anthony hadn't seen the point of trying to tame Malfoy, but Terry had taken a fancy to the notion of scientific methods that year and decided that it would be a grand experiment. The fancy had faded (any sort of method was simply too much for Terry) but the odd friendship had remained.

At that moment, however, Terry rather felt like strangling Draco.

"Let me get this straight," he said slowly. "You want me to break into Professor Snape's private rooms … to steal a book … a book that we're not sure if he still _has_ anymore … risking detention and _death_ … so that you can resurrect the spirit of Professor Lupin … which you believe is being stored inside of you and Harry Potter. Did I get it all?"

Draco considered this carefully and then nodded. Terry was relieved to see that Anthony looked as baffled by the proposition as he felt himself; this wasn't a common sort of thing that one wizard asked of another. After five years of attending Hogwarts, Theo had learned enough about wizarding culture to be awed by how very little he knew, a philosophy that would probably have done Harry some good to adopt.

They were sitting in a narrow corridor below Ravenclaw tower, which swayed ever so slightly in the wind of the storm. Snow hurled itself against the window pane and Draco looked a trifle green. Anthony and Terry, well used to the way their tower drifted in the wintertime, only braced themselves against the wall.

"I don't know what the book looks like," Draco said.

"Neither do I," Terry said desperately, "All I know about it is that it's small and bound in some sort of leather, which is what you told me _you_ saw when Lupin cast the spell on you and Potter."

"Why don't you just ask Snape for the book?" Anthony asked. Draco sniffed.

"I'll tell you later," Terry started to say, but Draco cut in.

"No, no, don't mind me. Explain away."

Terry let out an irritated huff of breath, but met Draco's eyes obstinately. "I told you that I didn't know what the spell would do -- you don't even know if it would be some part of Lupin or if only the red wolf would appear."

"What red wolf?" Anthony asked.

"The one that ate Little Red," Draco said, impatiently. "Why don't you go ask Loony Lovegood to explain it to you? The grown-up are talking, here."

"Professor Lupin cast a spell over Draco and Potter, over the summer," Theo said, turning to his friend. "It took the form of a red wolf when it manifested," -- Draco snorted rudely -- "Draco, honestly. Try to be nice at least once in a while, particularly while asking favours. I promise not to tell."

"People would know," Draco said mournfully.

"When You-Know-Who attacked them, this red wolf came out of their chests. It behaved like a Patronus but required the breaking of a soul to create. So what we -- mostly me -- have been trying to discover is whether this soul fragment can be recalled, only that's rather difficult because we don't have the book for it. Professor Snape does."

"What sort of soul fragment was it?" Anthony asked curiously. "If you know that, then you could figure out whether or not the soul itself can be recalled, even if you don't have the book."

Draco and Terry stared at him. "What do you mean, what sort of fragment was it?" Draco asked. "Are there varieties in souls? Different flavours, perhaps?"

Anthony flushed. "I meant, do you know what Lupin put into the spell? Was it a literal tearing off part of his soul, or was he calling up specific elements of it to put into the spell?"

"The spell resembles both a horcrux and a Patronus, as far as we can tell," Terry said slowly, "A horcrux tears off an actual piece of the soul and a Patronus is specific elements: happy memories. If we could find out anything about the base elements of the potion that Professor Lupin made, that might tell us whether it's closer to one or the other. But for that we need the book and now we're back in that loop again."

"I bet it's closer to the horcrux," Draco said. His voice was high and excited as he spoke, eyes glistening. "I bet it's an entire piece of him. It took three days for the potion to get those -- those things loose, the red lights that he cast over Harry and me. It couldn't just be a little part. I knew it; I knew that we could save him. I knew he wasn't really gone." He grinned at them and abruptly Terry's annoyance had turned to a hot, prickly fear.

Draco had always been prone to mood swings, of course. It wasn't anything Terry needed to worry about.

Except that five minutes ago, Draco had looked rational. Annoyed, but as calm as he ever was. There were a lot of things about what had happened to Draco, what gave him those scars, what had twisted and mutilated his hand, that Terry knew nothing about. He had never asked. Had never wanted to ask. Terry had always wanted to know everything, but when Draco had sat him down in September and looked at him with unfamiliar eyes, he had realised that there were some things better left unknown.

"Draco, we don't know anything for sure," he said. "We need the book before we can understand any of it."

Draco was already waving a hand at him dismissively, his eyes far away but that eerie grin still playing around his mouth. "Nonsense, Terry," he said, "I have absolute faith in you."

_If I strangled him, _Terry thought wildly,_ if I beat him over the head with Anthony's textbooks, would he be less mad? Then he'd be dead, I suppose. Dead and still mad, I don't think he could help it. Then he'd be dead and probably a ghost and then he'd never leave me alone. He'd bother me for eternity. I bet he'd be the sort of ghost that would always stick his hands through other people or yell rude things or interrupt lessons. _

He settled for grabbing Draco's face and shaking him lightly. "I'm not going to sneak into Snape's private rooms to steal a book for you," he said slowly, enunciating each word carefully. "Either you ask him for it or you steal it yourself."

"Why, is ickle Terry afraid of big bad Snape?" Draco asked, his words muffled by Terry's palms pressing against his cheeks.

"Terrified," Terry said solemnly. "Absolutely bloody terrified, ever since he exploded my cauldron in second year while I was trying to make a Babbling Beverage. I didn't stop talking for four days. He said I had gotten distracted, which is very likely, but I think he did it just for the fun of the thing."

"All right," Draco said, crossly. The light had faded from his eyes but his face was still flushed. "I'll get the book myself then, you nancy."

* * *

Most of the Heads of House did not live in the dormitories with their charges but were instead lodged somewhere nearby, close enough that they could be on the spot immediately if there were trouble or a crying child, but far enough away that they couldn't be accused of anything indecent, or, as was more likely, be plagued incessantly by their students. The sole exception to this rule was not, as one might suspect, in the Hufflepuff quarters but instead in Gryffindor, where the tower had been known to rearrange itself completely if the Head of House ever changed rooms. Each successive Head had for nearly three hundred years had attempted to gain at least a little bit more privacy and woken up in the middle of the night to find all of their belongings dumped into the Gryffindor common room and their own bed back where it belonged.

The rooms given to the Slytherin Head were less capricious and far better furnished than Gryffindor's. There were four rooms instead of the average two given to Hogwarts teachers: an impressive sitting room, a study, a bedroom and another room behind that with a multitude of secret doors and passageways hiding behind the decor. It had usually been used for shady and mysterious doings and in Snape's case, was where he kept his most valuable potions ingredients and brewed concoctions that he didn't want Dumbledore (or Voldemort) to know about. They were adjacent to the Slytherin dormitory, accessible by pressing the sixth stone down from the ceiling, twenty-three stones past the entryway to the dorms. Draco had had its position memorized since first year, although he hadn't been allowed into Snape's private rooms until the year after that.

It had been with Remus' voice in his ear that he had restrained himself from rushing down to the dungeons after leaving Terry and Anthony. He had bided his time instead with Dean Thomas, being taught the basics of Muggle football, which hadn't interested Draco until he'd learned about the frequency of rioting in the stands. Life in Slytherin had been tense lately, as they had begun to count down the days until they'd be returned to their parents, nearly all of whom were supporters of Voldemort if not active participants in Pansy Parkinson's murder. Unburdened by these worries, Dean listened with flattering interest to Draco's rambling stories and, even better, returned every insult and snide comment with the quick humour that was normally buried beneath a quiet exterior.

It was only when he was making his way towards the dungeons that the strange, panicked excitement returned, settling in his stomach and spreading through his shoulders and forearms, certainty bringing his footsteps down hard against the stone. He was conscious enough to check the corridor at both ends, even though it was past curfew and Theo and Daphne had long since departed on their rounds.

The dungeons were quiet, the bawling of the gramophone muffled nearly to silence by the stone walls, the air chill and damp. Draco stood for a long moment before the blank wall, his eyes tracing over the shapes of the stones, unseeing. He had spent so much time sitting beside Remus, following him around the house, that it was almost as though he could feel Remus standing next to him, guiding his wrist as his fingers twitched around his wand, the door appearing as the stones rolled smoothly away. His eyes shut as he moved his wand over the grain of the wood, probing for any weakness in the protective wards as one might feel for the tumblers of a lock. He wiped away a tear with his dead hand without really feeling it slide down his skin.

Draco's magic had come early and wild, untamable for years. His father had been so proud and had never minded the broken china the way Draco's mother had, repairing the damage done with a flick of his wand and then taking his son outdoors to see what else he could do. Draco's magic wasn't sophisticated, the way both Lucius and Narcissa's were; it was blunt and forceful, the equivalent of magic's bass notes. He recognised some of Snape's spells, knew how to break or go around a few but bothered with neither, shoving and tearing instead at the layers of magic that he could see behind his eyelids. His lips moved soundlessly.

Draco Malfoy would likely be quite a powerful wizard someday, if he survived long enough. Severus Snape, however, already was, and so what happened next really shouldn't have been a surprise.

Snape heard the shouting from the Potions classroom. His chin lifted and for a long moment he only listened, brow furrowed, hand still. Then, above the cries came a noise more animal than human and Snape was out of his seat and sprinting down the hall before his chair had hit the ground. What he saw when he reached the entrance to the Slytherin dorms, however, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Bound to the wooden frame of Snape's doorway was Draco Malfoy, his thin body nearly buried beneath thin, snake-like cords that strained under his furious struggles. Tracey Davis and Vincent Crabbe were pulling frantically on the cords and it was they who were shouting; Draco was howling and snarling, throat bared, a rope caught between his teeth like a horse's bridle.

"Get out of the way!" Snape barked, and Davis and Crabbe sprang away from Draco as if stung. Davis was nearly in tears, Snape noted as he waved his wand to free Draco from the cords. Crabbe caught Draco around the shoulders as he fell forward, tilting his friend's face up almost automatically, his own thick features creasing with worry when he saw the red lines cutting into Draco's skin.

"What is going on here?" Snape growled. "Were you attempting to break into my office?"

Draco's chin lifted defiantly and he shook off Crabbe's hands. "I need something from you."

"Indeed?" Snape said softly. He kept his eyes trained on Draco's face but didn't miss Crabbe's expression of dismay.

"Draco, come on. Leave it alone," Crabbe murmured. Draco didn't even look at him. He met Snape's eyes evenly, as though he had had every right to try and steal from Snape's rooms.

"What is it that you ... require so badly?" Snape hissed.

"A book. You know which one." Draco knew that the confrontation had shifted in his favor when Snape's face paled. His expression didn't change, but his eyes flickered towards Crabbe and Davis.

"You two are out of your common room. Return immediately."

Crabbe firmed his jaw out rebelliously, but bent his head and did as he was told. Davis followed him, glancing back at Draco over her shoulder. Tears had brimmed over and had finally spilled onto her cheeks, but if Draco had looked over at her he would have been startled to find fear rather than concern in her eyes.

The hall settled into silence as the door to the dormitories closed behind them. "Were you going to search my rooms?" Snape asked quietly.

Draco nodded. "I need that book."

"What were you planning to do when I caught you?"

Draco was silent.

Snape tapped his wand against the door, undoing the remainder of the wards in silence. He raised an eyebrow, sensing the damage that Draco had done to them, but said nothing. Draco followed him into the office and shut the door behind himself.

Snape made no move to fetch anything for Draco, merely moved to the chest at the far end of the room and removed a half-full bottle and a tumbler. He poured himself a few fingers of the amber liquor and turned to face Draco, tapping his long fingers on the edge of the crystal. Draco's good hand clenched. The other hung uselessly at his side.

Draco broke the silence first. "You have the book here. You wouldn't leave it for Sirius to find. And you wouldn't have left it after Remus died, either. You took it back and you've been hiding it here, keeping it secret."

Snape's response was cool and amused, keeping his thoughts in close to his chest. "I've kept a priceless book full of rare magic as some sort of ... token? Has there been something in our relationship that would lead me to believe that I am one of your love-sick classmates? Were you going to look under my pillow first?"

"You have it," Draco said.

Snape's eyebrows were lifted nearly to his hairline, but his smirk was fixed to his face. Staring at it, Draco was unsurprised to find within himself a sudden wellspring of hatred bubbling and rushing to the surface. His fingernails bit into his palm and he stared at the curve of Snape's mouth, thinking over and over:_ you failed him and I hate you, I hate you because you failed him, I hate you because you failed me._

"Oh!" Snape said, expansively. "If you have proof that the book is still within my possession, why didn't you simply say so? We could have dispensed with all of this."

_I hate you I hate you I hate you_, over and over again until it nearly drowned out Draco's certainty. He took a deep breath and then another without thinking about it, without grasping for hands or friends to support him as he always had. "I know that you have it," he said evenly. "I know that you took it so that you could remember him. I know because I took a jumper, a hat, a seashell and a piece of wood that were his. Because I needed to and so did you. Stop treating me like a child and _give me Remus' book_."

The blood pounding in Draco's ears drowned out the silence that stretched painfully between them. Snape's face was bloodless, his fingers tight around the tumbler before he set it down abruptly. He nodded once, only a sharp jerk of his chin and vanished into the shadows of his bedroom. Draco listened to the door of the chamber beyond open and close and then Snape returned, a small, calf-bound book clutched between his fingers. He stopped just beyond Draco's reach and held it out, forcing Draco to step towards him to reach it.

Snape's free hand came up and closed around Draco's wrist when he did so, holding the boy fast. Draco's lip curled but Snape only wrenched his arm painfully to the side. "You --" he snarled. "You insufferable --!"

He let go and turned away, and didn't look back when the door slammed behind Draco, _I hate you I hate you I hate you you failed me_ echoing in his mind.


End file.
